


Presque Vu

by stereokem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Behind the Scenes, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, But still an asshole, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Character Study, Dark, Eerie, Espionage, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, In Character, M/M, Missing Scene, Occlumency (Harry Potter), OotP, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), POV Severus Snape, Protective Severus Snape, Snape's Worst Memory, Subterfuge, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26095957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: Snape sees their relationship in glimpses. He does not like what he sees.presque vu (fr.)– almost seen; tip of the tongue; the sensation of being on the brink of an epiphany, though rarely leading to an actual breakthrough)
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Sirius Black & James Potter, Sirius Black/Harry Potter, Sirius Black/James Potter
Comments: 131
Kudos: 442





	1. June

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came from a short piece by opalish called “Bitter”. It was originally published on fanfiction.net and I can’t find it any longer. But, basically, I wanted to play with the idea that Sirius abuses the influence he has over Harry, as seen through the eyes of someone else—in this case, Severus Snape. There have been a couple of fics like this, but I really wanted to do my own take on it. I’m just a real sucker for character studies and, as much as Snape is an extremely flawed antihero, he's still one of my favorite characters. Probably because I identify with being a snarky asshole with dubious morals who is badly atoning for past mistakes. 
> 
> I recently re-read HP 5 (OOTP) to familiarize myself with the timeline of events and Rowling’s style and, dude, I actually forgot how canonically problematic Harry and Sirius’ relationship is— Sirius often and directly compares Harry to James. He’s moody towards Harry and possessive in a way that is decidedly not avuncular. Rowling definitely portrayed him as a man whose mental and emotional development was stagnated by his stint in Azkaban, if not totally warped. 
> 
> This story heavily implies grooming and dubiously consensual sex between Harry and Sirius. Nothing graphic.

_Mongrel._

It was the best single descriptor he could come up with for Sirius Black. Naturally, there were a plethora of other nouns and adjectives that Severus regularly employed to describe (belittle and humiliate) Black, but _this_ was the only word that could sum him up in entirety. _Mongrel_. Though Black had the pedigree of a thoroughbred, he was utterly, disgustingly ungroomed. Crude. Vulgar. Slovenly. Even now, sitting across the table at the Order meeting, dressed in such fine robes—Black family heirlooms that must have been plucked from some trunk in the attic, judging by the outdated cut and how loosely they fit him— there was no hiding the scruffy, unkempt dog. That he was allowed to sit at the table at all was a miracle.

And he did look _desperate_ to be there, Severus reflected, dark eyes narrowed in Black’s direction. Black had an air of need about him, almost an urgency. The man spoke up at every opportunity, injecting his opinions and thoughts even where they were unwanted. _The most he can do¸_ Severus thought with snide satisfaction. With the Ministry actively out for Black’s head, he had been confined to his wretched ancestral home, unable, even, to go outside in dog form. Though it was seldom outright discussed, all understood that Black was, essentially, useless to them.

And so, the man talked. And talked. And gave his stupid two-knuts on every issue brought to table—which currently happened to involve his godson.

“I think Harry has a right to know,” Black said, pressing one of his hands to the table. Severus observed that hand: nails short but still with dirt beneath; a silver ring on one finger so fine it seemed out of place; and the tattoos. Severus had seen nearly all of them, that night in the Shrieking Shack, and knew the most extensive tattoos were on Black’s chest. The runes on his hands were even older, the ink faded and beginning to blur.

“It would be unwise, Sirius.” Lupin spoke up then (it was only recently that Severus had managed to stop mentally referring to him as _the werewolf_ ). “Harry feels personally responsible for much of what is going on. I am afraid making him privy to Order matters would encourage him to act rashly.”

“ _More_ rashly, you mean. He isn’t the most conscientious child.”

All eyes turned to look at Severus for a moment. Unlike Black, Severus only spoke when a comment seemed necessary, or when the conversation had strayed too far into the ridiculous.

Black glared. Severus could practically hear the dog-like growl in his voice when he replied:— “Harry knows how to be careful.”

“I rather think I am a better judge of that than you are. I have been teaching him for four years, and I have yet to see what I might call a cautious streak.”

This made the rest of the table shifted uncomfortably, as such comments from Severus often did. However, as this comment was rather mild, and no one could take outright offense—nor could they disagree with him. Although, given the chance, Black would certainly try.

But, before Black could do so, Arthur Weasley spoke up from the end of the table where he was sitting with his wife. “I am inclined to agree with Remus and Severus. Telling Harry is, currently, in no one’s best interest. And, ultimately, telling Harry is Dumbledore’s decision. We really shouldn’t be discussing it here without him.”

The somewhat eager (doglike) expression on Black’s face fell instantly sullen, and he immediately cast an angry glance at Severus. Severus knew that Black hated it when members of the Order took his side over Black’s, and never missed an opportunity to (silently or otherwise) gloat over the occurrence. Severus returned Black’s baleful stare with a sneer of his own.

“Well,” said Kingsley, who typically served as chief facilitator for these meetings in Dumbledore’s absence, “I think we should conclude for the time being. Arthur, Alastor, Severus, you all have your orders.” He paused to look at the three of them, who each nodded once. “We will convene again in two weeks.”

With that, the scrape of chair legs against stone resounded as all members rose from the long table. Severus made to leave—the end of meetings usually resulted in offspring and other family members entering the room, which he had no desire to stay for—but Kingsley approached him.

“Severus, I would like a word.”

And, because Severus respected Kingsley, Severus stayed and attended to Kingsley’s queries. He did, however, keep his eye on the door which had, much to his expectation, opened to allow the younger two Weasley children, Granger, and Potter to enter.

Severus found effects of puberty on Potter entirely disturbing. As a tiny (and somewhat malnourished looking) first year, he’d been baby-faced. Formless, after a fashion. Now, he was transformed: a sharp jawline has emerged, along with a brooding brow. His shoulders, too, had broadened, though he was still short for his age. Muscles had appeared in all the usual places. He looked more and more like a young man, now.

Yet he was not, as Severus had once accused, the near spitting image of James Potter. There was a certain delicate quality to Potter’s features that James Potter had never possessed. It was in his fair complexion, his mouth, even his wild hair. Beneath his new muscle and manliness, he had a fragile, fey-like appearance.

And those eyes.

They were by turns bright and dark. Warm and cold. Happy and hunted. Severus could finally admit it to himself: they were no longer Lily’s eyes.

The boy had seen a great deal since coming to Hogwarts and being introduced to his magical heritage. Not a year seemed to go by that Potter was not tested in some way. This last year . . . Potter had seen Diggory murdered right in front of him. Had seen the rise of the Dark Lord himself and done battle, barely escaping with his life. It was a wonder he smiled at all.

But here he came with the Weasleys and Granger, chuckling at something Ronald Weasley leaned in to whisper. While the Weasleys and Granger went about setting the table—it was nearly dinner, an affair to which Severus was always stiffly invited and which he always declined— Potter went immediately for Black.

It was sickening, Severus reflected, nostrils flaring in disgust, how Potter simply _flocked_ to Black. How he seemed to admire the man. Black was a pathetic excuse for a wizard, an ex-convict, with a cruel streak a mile wide, but Potter just _basked_ in the man’s presence.

By virtue of the fact that he was still engaged with Kingsley, Severus managed not to sneer. Ever since that night in the Shrieking Shack, Potter has practically worshipped the ground that Black’s filthy feet tread upon. It was almost sad: the closest thing that the boy had to family happened to be a scoundrel and a fuckup. Yet, Potter looked up to him anyway. Thought he was a bloody saint, to hear Albus speak of it.

And Albus did speak of it—of his trust in Sirius Black. Despite Severus’ misgivings—which he had professed on multiple occasions— Albus continued to place his trust in Black, continued to say that he was valuable. _Valuable to whom?_ Severus had asked. _Certainly not to the Order._ To which Albus had simply replied:

_He is valuable to Harry._

And Albus was not the only one who thought so. Molly Weasley (despite her misigivings), Remus Lupin, and others who claimed some sort of kinship to the boy all attested: he was happier around Black.

With some effort, Severus returned his full attention to Kingsley, answering his questions. Finally, the man seems satisfied, and he bid Severus good night before sweeping out of the door, purple robes swirling behind him. Severus would not be far behind him; but, before he left, he cast one last look around the room.

Potter and Black had retreated to a corner of the room, away from the others. They were now standing close together, Potter’s youthful face turned up expectantly, admiringly towards Black. How cosy they looked. Black gave his godson a roguish smile in return, his hand reaching out to squeeze Potter’s shoulder and—

Touch the back of his neck.

Severus blinked. That was . . . unexpected. A strangely intimate gesture. He watched Black’s hand cup possessively around the nape of Potter’s pale neck, Black’s rough, ink-stained fingers brushed by the fringe of impossible black hair. Severus watched those fingers flex. Squeeze.

He looked back to Potter. The expression on Potter’s face was strange. His skin had taken on a slight flush. The eyes behind his glasses were both unsure and heated.

Severus could not see Black’s face. It was now hidden by a curtain of hair.

“Severus.”

Severus turned abruptly to see Molly Weasley watching him questioningly. “Will you . . . be staying for dinner?”

Severus looked around again, realizing he was the only non-family member still present. He turned back to Mrs. Weasley.

“No.” He paused, good manners for once getting the better of him. “Thank you, Molly.”

With that reply dispatched, he turned heel, giving his back to the room and starting off down the hallway towards the front door. The image of Potter and Black standing so closely stayed with him, made something coil unpleasantly in his gut. Before he could further dissect what it was, he exited Grimmauld place into the muggy London air and Disapparated with a loud _pop_.


	2. The Cleaning of Grimmauld Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to wait another day to post this chapter, but people were so lovely in expressing their interest I decided to post this chapter early.

_-July-_

Severus would have liked to say that he put his concern—or whatever the hell it was—around Black and Potter aside. It was really none of his affair what godfather and godson got up to. He would have liked to say that he put it completely out of mind and attended to his own blasted problems.

But Severus was of an inquisitive, obsessive nature. Once he found a scab, he could not help but pick at it.

He had always been grudgingly curious about the relationship between Potter and Black. The foundation of it was a mystery to him. On the face, it seemed so . . . trite. Improbable. Certainly, Black was Harry Potter’s godfather, and the closest friend of James Potter; but Black had also spent the better part of Potter’s life—thirteen years—as a prisoner and then a wanted man. Potter hadn’t even _known_ of him until approximately twenty months ago. Once he had known, Black had been thought a traitor for a time.

And Potter had hated him— perhaps even more than he hated Severus— at least, until he learned the (despicable) truth.

It was a truth that Severus grappled with constantly. It had been so much easier to hate Black when Severus had _believed_ him to be the betrayer of the Potters, the one who had _really_ handed them to the Dark Lord. It did not lessen the burden of Severus’ own guilt, but it certainly gave his loathing a target other than himself. It felt good to hate Black for that reason.

Severus remembered that moment in the Shrieking Shack, coming upon Black facing off with Potter and his friends. How Severus’ hatred and triumph had curled warm and wicked in his chest. How sweet the possibility of justice had been.

To learn of Black’s innocence and then of Albus’ decision to free him had been quite a blow. And neither of those things served to lessen Severus’ hatred of Black; merely made it mutate into something less reasonable.

Yet, the truth of Black completely changed Potter’s attitude towards him. The boy had gone from hating him to hero-worshipping him in a single night. It was pathetic. Irrational. (Severus doubted that there was any truth—even the one he was keeping so desperately close to his chest—that would make Potter hate _him_ any less.) This about-face for Black was completely nonsensical.

And yet . . . in some ways, understandable.

Potter, Severus knew, would be desperate for any sort of parental connection. Black had been intimate friends with the Potters. That would be enough to make anyone in the boy’s position reverential of Black. But Black also possessed the annoying characteristic of being extremely likeable. Charismatic. And, now that some of Azkaban had washed out of his demeanour, handsome. Even after all these years, Black still carried the juvenile, “bad boy” vibe that had made him so popular at school. And Potter seemed drawn to it like a moth to flame.

But the look on Potter’s face had not been altogether . . . familial. There was none of the steady, uncomplicated affection that rested on the faces of the Weasleys when they looked at one another in a moment of fondness. Potter had looked admiring, but uncertain.

Perhaps it was only natural. Potter and Black were essentially strangers and had little enough contact since they first met. Severus was sure they traded owl posts or used some other system of messaging. But of face-to-face interactions, there must have been few. But there was a certain amount of awkwardness that might be expected between them. Potter was, after all, a teenager and Black a grown man. Despite their similarities and mutual connections, there was a world of difference between them. And, perhaps, that was enough to explain what Severus had seen.

He had nearly convinced himself of this until the next Order meeting at Grimmauld.

**-HP-**

They were now three weeks into July. It brought with a stifling heat that, were it not for the daily-renewed cooling charms placed on his clothing, would have boiled Severus in his thick black robes. As things stood, it merely made his skin glisten unpleasantly and lent his hair an even greasier shine.

He Apparated into an alleyway near 12 Grimmauld, startling a stray cat out of a rubbish bin. The sun had not yet set, but was bleeding orange rays through the streets. He would be slightly early. No matter.

Casting a quick glamour about his person to make his robes appear as muggle clothing, he strode out of the alleyway, down the street, and stomped his foot twice to make 12 Grimmauld place appear. It slid uneasily out between the other two rowhouses, looking as lifeless and unkempt as ever.

Stepping up to the entrance, he opened the door and let himself into the dark hallway, his glamour falling away. Though the interior of the house was just as dusty and dilapidated as the outside, there were definitely more signs of life: he could hear someone (probably Molly Weasley) clattering about in the kitchen and the sound of chatter from upstairs. As he made his way through the house, passing many doors both shut and ajar, a tabby kneazle skittered past him and he paused to let it by. It stopped briefly to give him a baleful look before disappearing into another room. At the end of the hall, Severus saw a flash of red hair as one of the older Weasley boys—too tall to be Ronald— pursued an enchanted broom as it swept haphazardly before him. He did not seem to notice Severus; he disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared without giving him a glance. After a moment, a dustpan followed sluggishly behind, doing very little good.

There was a sudden noise beside him, and Severus turned to see an enchanted rag wiping at a dust-covered mirror to his left. Its streaking path across the mirror’s surface revealed to him his own sharp face, and he immediately turned forward again. _Summer cleaning? Black is putting his guests to good use._

Without warning, a wave of magic swept down the hall. Severus threw up a shield just in time before it swept over where he was standing, throwing up dust everywhere. He watched through irritated, slit eyes as it continued down the hall and turned the corner to follow where the Weasley boy had gone. Looking at the hall it had left in its wake, Severus noticed that everything appeared a bit more vibrant, a bit less grey. A cleaning charm. Nothing more.

Releasing his shield, Severus straightened his robes. He coughed as he unintentionally released a pocket of dust that had been trapped in his sleeve—

He stopped, clamping his mouth shut.

There had been a noise. He’d almost not heard it over his cough. He waited.

Silence. Then—

Severus whirled around. There it was again. A thud, followed by something that could have been a muffled voice. Severus surveyed the hallway behind him. Empty. But lined with many doors leading to different rooms.

Another man might have reasoned with himself, might have told himself it was probably nothing. Perhaps just another poorly executed cleaning charm wreaking havoc on some antique furniture. Another, less suspicious man, would have reasoned the noise away.

But Severus could have sworn he heard—

_“Ah! . . . ”_

Severus crept silently back down the hallway, following the sounds. He stopped before a closed door, its exterior painted a deep black. The paint seemed as fresh as if it were applied yesterday. The handle of the door was wrought iron, heavy. Clutching his wand tightly in his right hand, Severus reached for the handle with his left, felt it warm unnaturally under his hand. Spelled.

Another thud from within the room. And, then, what was, unmistakably, a moan. Severus leaned closer, nearly pressing his ear to the door. Muffled words. Someone shushing another. Another moan, this one higher, longer and more drawn out—

And then, nothing. Silence so complete, it could have only been magic.

Severus tightened his grip on his wand—

“Professor?”

On instinct, Severus immediately released his hand from the door handle and stepped back, turning to face his addressor. He was somewhat surprised to see the youngest Weasley girl, looking uncertainly at him from the end of the hallway.

Hastily, he lowered his wand. “What is it, Miss Weasley?”

She swallowed and rubbed one of her elbows. Her eyes dropped. She had yet to be able to hold his gaze. “Mad—Mr. Moody just arrived through the back. He’s in the kitchen.”

Severus waited. All the while, he kept listening, straining to hear what he knew had been magically silenced. “And?”

She glanced up at him, and then flushed deeply. “He’d—erm—like a word.”

Severus turned his dark gaze from her and back to the door. It continued its damnable silence.

Miss Weasley was still watching him, her nerves practically making her vibrate. Severus withheld an irritated sigh.

“Thank you, Miss Weasley.”

Casting one last suspicious glance at the door, he stormed down the hallway, passed Miss Weasley, and headed for the kitchen.

**-HP-**

The Order meeting was a relatively long one—the last several of them would be able to attend for as many months. Severus, in particular, would need to limit his contact with the Order if he was to be convincing in his role as a faithful Deatheater.

And, during the meeting, when he was not entirely preoccupied, he had a chance to mull over what he had—or had not— witnessed in the hallway earlier. Though he had heard relatively little, he was fairly certain he knew what was going on behind that door. He had walked in on his share of students at Hogwarts doing the very same thing—in various states of dress or undress. And the moan—if that is indeed what it was—sounded like an adolescent. The question, however, was: who was it?

Logically, it could only be some horrid combination of Potter, Granger, and one of the Weasley boys. In any case, it mattered little and he was glad he had not pursued it further. It was one thing to stop such nonsense between randy teenagers at Hogwarts; in this house, the blame would rest firmly on Black’s head if someone became pregnant, and he had no wish to spare Black such ignominy.

The Order meeting had officially begun around 5 and ended at 7:40—late enough that, as soon as they concluded, plates practically sprang from the cabinets in order to put dinner on the table. Severus stood as the kitchen doors opened to allow in the children, including Potter—

Severus, who had been about to storm out of the room, stopped. He stared, eyes narrowing.

The boy had never been particularly well-kept—skinny and scraggly and his hair was constantly a mess—but, today, he looked even more ruffled. Off-kilter, somehow. He was wearing a faded t-shirt two sizes too large over muggle jeans secured with a belt. Both seemed more rumpled than usual. He was walking strangely, his gait staggered, as if he did not have full control of his body, or as if something hurt. 

And his expression. There was something distinctly unsettling about it, about the gaze that had immediately turned to Black, who’d sat two to Severus’ left and was now standing. Potter’s expression was. . . .

Slack. His mouth curled into a lopsided grin that seemed in danger of sliding all over his face. His eyes—those damnable green eyes—were bright as ever but glazed. As if he wasn’t really seeing. Or as if he could see nothing but Black.

Severus watched once again as Black and Potter approached each other. They did not embrace this time as they had the last, but Black put his hand on Potter’s shoulder. The smile that graced Black’s face was full, more relaxed and open than any Severus had seen. His eyes shone with fondness. Admiration.

Adoration.

They looked at one another as if they were the only two people in existence. But, while Potter’s gaze was soft, Black’s was intense. Hard. Almost desperate.

And, suddenly, Severus felt his insides twist.

He couldn’t name it. And he couldn’t be sure of anything.

He drew his gaze from Potter and Black. It landed on Moody, who was making his exit out the back, heading for the Apparition point in the garden.

Moody’s magical eye had seen Severus come in. Perhaps he had also seen—? Severus moved swiftly, catching up to him just a few steps outside the door. “Alastor.”

Moody turned, giving Severus the courtesy of his full attention. He the eyebrow over his normal eye. “Severus.”

Severus paused. He was not entirely sure how to ask this question. “You arrived here approximately when I did, correct?”

Moody nodded. His normally gruff expression was growing more suspicious by the moment. “Aye.”

“And you saw me?”

He needn’t clarify what he meant. Moody nodded again.

“Did you happen to see . . . _everyone_ else?”

Moody considered Severus for a long moment. “No,” he finally said, readjusting his grip on his gnarled walking stick. “I can see through many natural objects—wood, stone, the like. But can’t see through enchantments. This house,” he gestured up at the building, “is chalk bloody full of them. Hallways are mostly clear. But rooms are . . . fuzzy and dark.” He narrowed his one ordinary eye. “Why?”

Severus fished for a convincing cover. “Someone—I believe one of the Weasleys—attempted to play a prank on me as I arrived. I was wondering if you saw anyone near me.”

Moody shook his head, though he didn’t look quite convinced. “The only Weasley I saw near you was Miss Ginevra, and only because I sent her.”

Severus did his best to convey a sneer of disappointment at not being able to harass a Weasley for some crime. “Pity.”

Turning his back, Severus re-entered the kitchen. Kingsley, Tonks, and Remus were (thankfully) lingering and dinner had not started. He made his escape quickly from the kitchen. Though it would have been more convenient for him to use the garden Apparition spot after Moody, no one questioned him deciding to go back through the house and leave out the front.

As Severus swept down the hallway leading to the entrance, he surreptitiously looked behind him. No one had followed.

He approached the door from earlier, placing his hand on the handle once more. It remained cold. The spells had been lifted.

He turned the handle and opened the door.

He entered what appeared to be a small bedroom, equipped with only a four-poster bed, a dresser, and an empty bookshelf. It, too, seemed to have been cleaned as part of the greater effort to restore some of Grimmauld place—Arthur Weasley had confirmed in a brief comment that the children were helping clean the house. It held the faint odor of lemons from someone’s cleaning charm.

Severus removed his wand from his robes. “ _Appare Vestigium._ ”

Surely enough, traces of a general cleaning charm appeared. Severus repeated the spell, revealing the last enchantments that had been performed in the room.

A polishing charm for the wood of the bed bannisters.

A cleaning for the sheets.

A silencing charm.

A memory charm.

Severus stared at the yellow, green, and purple traces of spellwork that his wand revealed, watching the sigils that winked in and out of existence. He eyed the last trace, unease turning slowly in the pit of his stomach. He cast the spell again, watching the spell trace, trying to be sure of what he was seeing. _What the devil—?_

A sudden noise from further down the hallway made him start. Before anyone could discover him and ask what he was doing, Severus exited the room. He turned quickly down the hall, opened the front door, and Apparated on the doorstep.


	3. Peradventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short(ish) chapter this time. This was actually somewhat difficult to write-- striking a balance between Severus' natural suspicion and inclination to intervene, and his (in this case) faulty reasoning that there might be some other explanation for the things he saw-- or, for the most part, didn't see.

_\- July, August -_

All evening in his chambers that night, Severus brooded. Filled a glass with two fingers (fine, three fingers) of Firewhiskey and sat in the large chair by the fire and stared into the flame. Not for the first time in his life, he found himself unsure of what to think.

He knew where his immediate suspicions lay. The possibility was so revolting, he was sure that he was the only person who would consider it.

Was that why he left without saying anything? Certainly, no one there would have entertained his same suspicions. They would have thought _him_ the sick one. Additionally, and contrary to popular belief, Severus was no longer so blinded by his hatred of Black to consider the alternative—that he might be wrong. That he might only want a reason to get Black into trouble.

He had been wrong about Black before. 

Severus sipped from his Firewhiskey, staring moodily into the dying embers in his grate, the unfamiliar feeling of doubt clawing at the edges of his mind. Did he really think Black capable of such a thing? In previous flights of fancy, Severus had glibly decided that Black was capable of anything—but he had never imagined _this._

Severus once again conjured in his mind the look on Black’s face as he gazed down at his godson. Severus was not familiar with the look of love, familial or otherwise. Had Black’s expression been strange? Or was that simply the look one gave the son of late friends?

The expression—or his memory of it—gave Severus an odd feeling of déjà vu.

Severus shifted in his seat, a bubble of anger welling up in his chest. He still thought it patently ridiculous that Black was allowed to be so near Potter. For thirteen years, the entire wizarding world—including self-proclaimed bosom-buddy, Remus Lupin—had thought Black a traitor of the worst kind. Severus could accept that Pettigrew was the real culprit, but had more difficulty understanding how the distrust and hatred of Black could vanish so suddenly, to be immediately replaced by warm acceptance and implicit trust. That they assumed to know him, despite the fact that he had spent thirteen years in Azkaban.

The thought of that prison made Severus shudder. He’d had minimal interactions with Dementors. His closest encounter was when he stood trial before the Wizengamot after the war, as Albus demonstrated not his innocence, but his subterfuge for the side of light. Severus had been sat in the Wizengamot interrogation chair, the chains coiling around his arms and legs, while a host of Dementors swirled overhead, kept at bay only by a Patronus charm. He knew then that they were hungry for him; the feeling had prevented him from sleeping for several days, even after he was cleared.

He could not imagine what it must have been like to live daily in that presence for over a decade. He had a difficult time believing that it would not change a person. Azkaban was known to drive people mad.

But Black gave every appearance now of having his sanity intact. He was still an incomparable idiot, but he did not have violent outbursts, or behave in a deranged manner. He could not, presently, be rightly accused of being unhinged.

In Severus’ opinion, that alone should not amount to confidence, or give him unfettered access to the past and future saviour of the wizarding world, godson or no; but Severus was outnumbered on that score. The only comfort there was that he was outnumbered by people who also spent a good deal of time around Potter—people who were watching over him, protecting him. People who would notice if something were amiss.

Then what had Severus seen? What exactly had he found evidence of?

The problem with _Appare Vestigium_ was that it showed only the most recent spell traces—usually from the past twenty-four hours. It did not reveal _exactly_ what spells were cast, or the order in which they were cast. It was a complicated spell to interpret, even if one _could_ accurately identify all the spell traces, which required considerable practice and skill. Severus believed he had seen a memory charm, but there was no guarantee it had been used in conjunction with any of the other spellwork. Perhaps Black had tried to _Obliviate_ his house elf again—a foolish enterprise, as elf magic was powerful enough to resist such things, but a possibility.

In any case, he could hardly begin interrogating every person within Grimmauld. He would look _insane_ —

The logs in the grate crackled, and Severus found himself irritably downing the remainder of his Firewhiskey. It was late, too late to continue thinking about such things; he needed to rest and be up early to make preparations for the start of term.

Whatever was going on between Black and Potter . . . it was unlikely to be what he suspected. And, if not that, it was surely none of his bloody business. He would put it out of mind.

**-HP-**

Despite this conviction, at the next order meeting, two weeks, later, Severus found himself watching Black more often than was his wont. As he listened to Kingsley and Moody discuss the movements of a Death Eater faction in Cornwall, he kept his eyes trained on Black.

The other man paid him almost no mind. Black seemed calmer today than he had been previously— nearly buoyant. He was mostly silent during the meeting, seeming content to lean insouciantly back in his chair and nod in agreement at various intervals.

It was unlike Black to be so passive. He was distracted by something.

Severus would not hazard a guess to what that was. And, when the meeting broke and the children—now including the two Weasley twins—entered the dining room, Severus waited only long enough for them to clear the doorway before pushing through it himself without so much as an adieu—

But he did stop, just outside the doorway. He could not help himself. He turned back to look.

There they were, Potter and Black. Potter had approached Black where he was still leaning at the table, was sitting himself down next to his godfather. Severus could not see Black’s face from his angle, but he could see Potter’s.

The expression there today was uncomplicated: fond, admiring. The sort of look appropriate towards a godfather more deserving than Black.

Black said something with a flourish of his hand, and Potter cracked a grin so wide that it almost startled Severus to see it. It was, he reflected, one of the first times off the Quidditch pitch that he had seen Potter’s full smile.

Something like irritation bubbled up in Severus’ chest. Turning away, he stalked down the darkening hallway towards the front door.

Before he reached it, he stopped in the middle of the hallway. He turned towards the door on his left. The paint on it still gleamed a slick black.

He reached out to place his hand on the knob. Cool.

Casting a glance about himself, he twisted the knob and slipped inside.

The room looked much as he had last seen it. He could not tell, upon visual inspection, whether anything had been changed or disturbed. He removed his wand from his robes.

“ _Appare Vestigium.”_

This time, no spell traces came forth. Severus stood in the empty room, watching his own spell fade into nothing.

Suspiciously, he moved towards the single bed in the room. It was draped in the same colors as much of the rest of the house: grey and black. Without thinking, Severus lifted a hand to run along the fabric of the sheets covering it.

A surge of frustration welled up within him. His hand clenched in the sheets.

With one last glance around the room, Severus turned heel, walked to the door, and slipped back out into the hallway. 

**-HP-**

The students arrived at Hogwarts three weeks later. Severus attended the welcoming feast with his usual good cheer and surveyed them all dourly between snippets of somewhat forced conversation with Pomona Sprout. He paid no more and no less attention to Potter than usual: a once-over when the boy had taken his seat, before shifting his gaze to the pink monstrosity that was to be the new DADA professor. Severus was so immediately and intensely revolted by Dolores Umbridge—from her mannerisms to her attire—that he barely glanced at Potter during the feast. In this way, he failed to notice how Potter smiled woodenly at his friends before turning his face into his plate, or that he ate no more than three bites throughout the feast.


	4. Deja vecu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually originally wrote the conversation at the end of the Deatheater meeting between Severus and Bellatrix Lestrange before I realized that she was still in prison. So, I changed it to a figure of my own invention: Margaux L’estrange, distant aunt of Bellatrix and fervent racist/pureblood. 
> 
> “sang de bourbe” – (fr.) Mudblood
> 
> Description of torture, but not graphic bodily torture.

_-September-_

In any case, Severus had little time to concern himself with any pet suspicions of his own once the semester got under way. He would never admit it to anyone, but he always thought the workload required of one Hogwarts teacher to be patently ridiculous—five mandatory years of potions instruction for four bloody Houses, in addition to his NEWT students was an ungodly amount of work in a good year. This year, he also had less savoury work to look forward to.

After Potter had brought news of the Dark Lord’s return last year at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, Albus had asked Severus to re-join the fold of Death Eaters. It was a task that he had been dreading for years, hoping in vain that it would not come to pass. Yet, when the time came he went about it without delay.

He had begun by spending the beginning of the summer consulting with Lucius, who _had_ answered the summons last year and had been witness to the Dark Lord’s return. It was easy enough to make his case to one of his oldest associates: Lucius had been, if not sympathetic, understanding of Severus’ predicament, of his decision to _not_ answer the summons and remain at Hogwarts. Severus gave his case, made it known to Lucius how desperately he wanted to be of serve to the Dark Lord once more. The task was not difficult: Lucius was eager to have more of his own in the circle of Death Eaters, and he had always viewed Severus as being under his wing. Thus, it was only a matter of time before Lucius delivered Severus’ message to the Dark Lord himself. Lucius did not disappoint.

Two weeks into June, Lucius had called Severus to Malfoy Manor. Corban Yaxley was there when Severus arrived; he had greeted Severus with a not-quite-pleasant smile, while Lucius watched them both with some trepidation from the background.

Lucius had, indeed, conveyed Severus’ desires to re-join the Dark Lord; the Dark Lord, in turn, had sent Yaxley to determine Severus’ loyalty.

“I am sure you understand,” Yaxley had said softly as Lucius exited the room and closed the door behind him (though not before giving Severus a last nervous look). “The Dark Lord must be sure that any . . . lost lambs returning to the fold are true devotees.”

Severus’ skin had prickled at those words. There was no mistaking what Yaxley—or the Dark Lord—had in mind. Obediently, Severus removed his wand from his robes and set it on the table between them. He then shed his outer cloak, and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, displaying the Dark Mark to Yaxley. He knelt, first to one knee, then to both. He looked up at Yaxley.

“Whenever you’re ready, then.”

It had been over a decade since Severus had experienced that level of torture. The first strike of pain from Yaxley’s _Cruciatus_ was exquisite, gut-wrenching, left him feeling shaky and sick. What kept him focused was understanding that the torture was not for its own sake—it was to weaken his defenses against Legilimency. The Dark Lord had sent Yaxley because he had some small skill in the art, and a penchant for torture. A match made in heaven, really.

Severus had prepared himself for this, however. There were multiple ways to thwart a Legilimens. The first was simply to occlude; the second, to misdirect.

Hatred is a desperate emotion; it comes easily when called. Therefore, when Severus allowed Yaxley enter his pain-addled mind, he painted images in broad, vibrant strokes: he threw up images of Potter, of him deriding Potter in front of classmates; he threw up his hatred of Black, his disdain for Remus Lupin, and even his disdain for Albus Dumbledore. He conjured up images of the little Granger twit, and allowed the knowledge of her blood status to mingle with his dislike of her, even though the two had nothing in common. He allowed Yaxley to see his years of waiting, of never trying to ingratiate himself to the rest of the staff. He let Yaxley see the moment he first laid eyes upon Harry Potter, the tiny boy that was the bane of his whole fucking existence—

It had taken perhaps an hour for Yaxley to be truly satisfied. While Severus lay panting and shaking on the floor before him, he had said, “Very well, Severus. You have my confidence. In time, you may have the Dark Lord’s as well.”

After that, Severus was left to wait. He heard nothing for months.

And, then, in the second week of September, he received the Summons.

He found himself Apparating just outside of a rundown manor house somewhere in Sudbury **.** There were several loud cracks to his left, and he saw Amycus and Alecto Carrow appear, along with Yaxley. The first two looked at him dubiously; Yaxley smiled cruelly.

“Here is our lost lamb.”

Severus gave him a sneer. “Never lost, Yaxley. Simply waiting.”

He nodded, smile not wavering. “Follow me.”

Severus was directed inside the house, but away from the large dining room where the others were congregating. No, Yaxley led him down a narrow corridor, opening the door to a small room where a figure stood facing a roaring fire.

Without turning, Dark Lord greeted Severus in his soft, high voice: “Ah, Severus. Yaxley told us to expect you.”

Severus did not have time to experience the sheer horror of hearing that voice again, of seeing the Dark Lord in the flesh for the first time in fourteen years. He had gone to his knees immediately, prostrating himself. “My Lord.”

From his kneel, Severus had watched the Dark Lord turn, watched the swirl of his robes as he approached Severus. When he was standing directly before him, Severus finally did look up.

It was surreal, to see those red eyes peering out of a skeletal face, looming over him, assessing. A lesser man than Severus would have quailed at the sight. Severus merely kept his supplicating posture.

“Yaxley has shown me his proof of your loyalty; you will forgive me for seeking out my own.”

That was all the warning Severus had received before the Dark Lord entered his mind. It was not like it had been with Yaxley; for this, the Dark Lord did not bother with mundane methods of torture. He did not need to. The silvery, cool feeling of his mind sliding against Severus’ was disturbing and exacting, like a scalpel cutting through his consciousness. It was like being flayed alive while paralyzed, unable to do so much as squirm. It was agony, pure and sweet.

Allowing the Dark Lord into one’s mind was dangerous. Resist, and he would leave permanent damage. Severus simply let the blade cut through him, allowed himself to be stripped open as the Dark Lord drank his fill, all the while keeping his singular secret buried so deep that he himself nearly forgot it.

He felt the Dark Lord sift through his memories, through his hatred, through his actions the past fourteen years just as he had Yaxley—until, finally, He was a the beginning: the time of his own near-demise, fourteen years ago.

The Dark Lord saw his own conversation with Severus about Lily, his pleading to spare her. He saw Severus’ acceptance of her fate. He saw Severus going to Dumbledore.

This was the most carefully reconstructed memory that Severus owned. The original was not even in his own brain—it was in the penseive in Dumbledore’s office. This one was a lie, meticulously crafted; it was the lie upon which his entire existence and alibi hung:

_Severus, approaching Dumbledore. Severus, begging Dumbledore to hide Lily. Dumbledore, telling Severus that it was already in hand. And Severus, all the while thinking, cruelty curling warmly in his heart: **You foolish old man. You would believe me so easily. You are leading me straight to them.**_

When the Dark Lord withdrew, a trickle of blood was running from Severus’ nose. He directed his gaze into the dark folds of his Master’s robes, waiting with bated breath for his verdict.

When the Dark Lord spoke next, his voice was almost warm.

“Welcome back to us, Severus. I look forward to seeing you prove yourself.”

And, with that, Severus had been directed by Yaxley back into the hallway, then to the large dining room taking his place among the Death Eaters by Lucius (who looked more relieved than was appropriate in this circle). He ignored the unimpressed looks from others, and focused on keeping his own body from shaking with exhaustion and the echo of pain.

Those that had been hoping to see him tortured were disappointed—but only momentarily. For after Severus had re-joined the ranks, a proper traitor had been brought forth.

Severus watched through hollow, unflinching eyes as the man—Thornton Blackwell—was tortured. He curled his lip for good measure, but otherwise remained removed, still vibrating with the thought: _How could it be this easy?_

It wasn’t, of course. _I look forward to seeing you prove yourself_. Those words were not merely a platitude; they were a promise.

The meeting concluded when the Dark Lord Disapparated to parts unknown, leaving them with instructions to await his next call. There was a general murmur of excitement among the hooded figures; though it would behove him to stay and attempt conversation with them, Severus had never displayed a desire to engage socially with Death Eaters other than Lucius. To try to do so now would be suspicious.

So, with a final nod at Lucius (who was lingering on the decision to stay or go), Severus turned heel and headed out the door of the house—

“Snape,” came an eerily familiar voice from over his shoulder.

He stopped before the door and turned to see the gaunt but imposing figure of Margaux L’estrange. She was an older woman— about McGonagall’s age— with cruel, dark eyes and curly black-and-grey hair. Though they were related by marriage and not by blood, the resemblance between Margaux L’estrange and her distant niece, Bellatrix Lestrange, was uncanny. As she watched Severus, her mouth pressed into something that might have been a smile.

Severus inclined his head— not a full bow, but a show of deference. “Madame L’estrange,” he said smoothly. He offered her no other greeting.

Her mouth twitched. “So glad to see you in my house, back among the faithful,” she said lightly in her deep, scratchy voice. “What a useful dormouse you were before. We could use such talents now, no?”

Severus considered her. A paternal relative of the Lestrange’s, Margaux L’estrange and her family had come to the United Kingdom to participate in the First Wizarding War on the side of Voldemort. The L’estranges owned several properties in Britain—including, it seemed, this one— and had lent them to the Dark Lord for his use during the war. After the deaths of her husband and son, Margaux had gone back to France. Severus had not expected to see her here tonight. As far as he knew, none of the L’estranges had ever taken the Dark Mark; but, as she remained a fervent supporter, he supposed he should not be surprised to find himself in her house or in her presence.

Severus held her gaze. “I am grateful for the opportunity to serve the Dark Lord and thankful for His clemency.”

“A little too easily granted, don’t you think?”

Severus withheld a sneer. He had not known Margaux well prior to the Dark Lord’s downfall, but she had a reputation for being just as cruel as the rest of her relatives. She had probably expected the Dark Lord to publicly torture Severus for his defection. But, she, nor many of the other Death Eaters, had ever been on the receiving end of the Dark Lord’s focused Legilimency, and so had no idea that they were one and the same. “Do you question His judgement?”

Margaux’s smile tightened; she gave a non-answer: “You will have to prove yourself.”

“And I look forward to the opportunity.” Severus bowed his head again and made to turn to leave.

“I have been visiting my niece lately. Bella.” Severus turned back to face Margaux. She was watching him shrewdly through narrowed eyes.

“She longs for the outside, you know, to return to His service. And she asks after her family.” Margaux gave a funny little laugh, high and cold. “She ask me to find out about her cousin—the blood traitor, Sirius Black. I think she is eager to see him again.” Margaux’s smile left no room for doubt what would happen in that event.

Severus raised an eyebrow, despite himself. “Again?”

“They were—how do you say— neighbors in that awful place.” Margaux’s face morphed into an expression of pure disgust. “Azkaban.”

Severus had not known this. It was rather unusual for prisoners related by blood to be placed in adjacent cells.

Reading his expression, Margaux continued: “Only for a year or two; before my Bella was moved higher up the tower.”

“What a happy time that must have been for both of them.”

“ _En effet_. She tells me he used to wail terribly about the blood traitor James Potter.” She said the name as if it were offensive. “Another traitor, marrying that _sang de bourbe_.”

Margaux paused here. Severus got the distinct impression that, if not for her genteel ways, Margaux would have spat on the ground in disgust. Once she regained some of her equilibrium, she continued in a condescending air:

“That is what is wrong with our world now. This common mixing of blood. An abomination. Almost as much as this pederasty that has become so common. Men lying with men, _agh_ ,” she made a noise of frustration and disgust. “How Black let his own name become so polluted with his base fancies. Running off with Potter.” Her mouth pressed into a very thin line, her nostrils flaring in disgust. “They were degenerates, you know.”

Her meaning was not lost on Severus. If Severus had been anyone else, he might have had to pick his jaw up off the floor. However, it was not for nothing that he had survived the first war as a spy; he managed only the tiniest dip of his mouth, which he smoothly transformed into a look of displeasure. “Disgusting.” The vitriol in his voice was at least real. _Good Merlin, Sirius Black and James Potter—?_

“I hear the boy is like his father?” Margaux asked, disdain dripping from her voice.

“Despicably so,” Severus replied automatically. The vitriol in his voice was very real—but even as he said it, Severus recalled to mind the visage of Potter entering the dining room of Grimmauld place: the delicacy to his features, that almost etherealness of someone fragile. James Potter had never looked that way in Severus’ memory.

Margaux gave a huff. “Black must be pleased.”

Severus raised a single black eyebrow. Pleased indeed. Black acted like he had his old bosom buddy back when he was around Potter—although . . . Severus mulled over Margaux’s previous accusation. _They were degenerates, you know._

He did not know how much of that to believe. James Potter been distinctly girl-crazy, if Severus remembered correctly. Black, on the other hand had been a serial heartbreaker: after fourth year, there had been a different girl on his arm every other week, whom he looked upon with the vague disinterest of someone who merely enjoys being admired.

Severus remembers girl after girl fawning over Black—and Black, always looking up over their heads to wink at James Potter. 

“I don’t think anything pleases Black,” he said finally, before the silence had stretched for too long. “He is a mongrel who always thinks he is owed thrice what he has earned.”

Margaux seemed surprised by this evaluation. Her gaze shifted from disapproving to thoughtful, as if Severus were someone she had never truly considered before this moment. She looked him up and down, dark eyes combing through him, assessing.

Then, her wrinkled face broke out into a somewhat terrifying smile. “Yes. Perhaps you will tell him—if you see him—that his cousin Bella is thinking of him?”

Margaux continued to watch him, like a curious cat watching a mouse just out of reach. That she suddenly found him interesting was an uncomfortable thought.

But a dark fog had settled over Seveurs’ mind, obscuring his thoughts even from his own view.

“Of course.” And then, with a full bow: “Good evening, Madame L’estrange.”

With that, he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and finally stepped out into the night. He had not taken three steps out the door before the _crack_ of his Apparition announced his departure from the premises.

**-HP-**

Madame L’estrange’s words latched onto Severus’ mind. He could not shake them. Even several days later in his 5th year potions class (Gryffindors and Slytherins, because whoever made the schedule had a bloody awful sense of humor), Severus found himself walking from cauldron to cauldron as usual, but keeping his attention subtly trained on Potter.

He seemed paler than usual, if that were at all possible. He had a perpetually grave look about him that was both angry and shuttered. Severus knew the boy had some unfortunate interactions with their new DADA professor and Ministry watchdog—the thought of which almost made Severus snort with laughter. Let Potter put his obstinacy and arrogance to good use for once and harangue someone who bloody deserved it.

Perhaps Umbridge, with all her political powers, was a match for Potter after all: he seemed quieter in Severus’ class these days, seldom spoke except to speak to his lab partner, usually Weasley. He barely even raised his head, save to look at the board where Severus had written instructions for the day.

Potter did so now, his paring knife in one hand, reading Severus’ spidery scrawl.

A thought crossed Severus and held fast.

It was more curiosity than careful reasoning that led Severus to whisper _“Legilimens”_. Immediately, he was transported into the prism of Potter’s mind—though only the surface. Eye-contact was needed for deep probing of a subject’s mind, and he had no real desire to intrude, merely to . . . satisfy his curiosity. To make sure there was nothing he had missed.

Potter’s mind was elsewhere at the moment, only half focused on the brewing. (If that was a common occurrence, it was no wonder he was a dismal potions student.) Severus sifted through flashes of sunlight and open air—Quidditch—and quiet laughter. He glimpsed a passing fancy of what appeared to be long black hair, then red. He saw a glimpse of a pink blob and felt a frisson of revulsion that he couldn’t be sure was his or Potter’s—

Suddenly, he found himself staring into his own face.

Severus pulled back instantly from Potter’s mind, coming back to the classroom to find Potter staring directly at him. 

Potter’s brows were furrowed in and suspicion as he watched Severus watch him. His lips were pressed together in a thin line. He looked confused and angry.

Without changing his expression, Severus slid his gaze easily from Potter and onto the students at the workstation behind him. He continued walking down the rows of students at their cauldrons, effectively turning his back on Potter.

However, as Severus swept up another row of cauldrons, he saw Potter rubbing his scar out of the corner of his eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is, in my opinion, kind of funny.


	5. Interlude: Veritaserum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a somewhat self-indulgent aside. I have essentially decided to fill in the gaps of the year, from Severus' perspective.
> 
> Fun fact: 3D chess is not just a thing on Star Trek. 3D chess has been around for quite a while (and, you know, Ravenclaw’s wouldn’t have a tournament with just 2D chess). 
> 
> Also, I am 100% convinced that Snape handed Dolores Umbridge tap water instead of Veritaserum in the canon

_-October, November-_

The semester dragged by like a dull knife dragging across skin—though with the creep of something far more sinister.

Throughout September and into October, that Umbridge woman came around and questioned every single one of the Hogwarts faculty and staff—including Severus himself. His own interview with the woman had been stilted. Despite her idiot line of inquiry, she seemed generally satisfied with his teaching methods, his curriculum, and his general dislike of the students. Other than making suggestions to take out some of the advanced potion work, she let him be, thank Merlin. She was not, however, content to do so for the rest of Hogwarts.

The Educational Decrees began to line the wall outside of the Great Hall. Severus never regarded them as innocuous, even the more mundane decrees—he, and the rest of the staff, saw them plainly for what they were. He could feel the paranoia and stupidity which characterized the current Ministry of Magic seeping into the halls with every noticed nailed to the wall.

He dared speak little of it to Albus—the only secure conversations they had were in the safety of the Headmaster’s study, and Severus had not been invited into that sanctum since his first Death Eater meeting. He, like the rest of the professors, was left to deal with Umbridge according to his conscience and personal daring.

Thus, he had no compunctions about handing her “Veritaserum” when she came to his office in the first week of November to request it.

He had blinked slowly and deliberately at her as she made her request, watching as her expectant and toad-like expression did not falter.

“May I ask why?” he said slowly. He kept his tone light and anticensorious. He had no desire to provoke her ire—not today. He had awoken in the morning with the Mark on his arm burning dully, and it had increased its intensity throughout the day to the point that he now had a secondary headache. He had no wish to add a second irritation to his day in the form of an affronted Dolores Umbridge. 

Umbridge gave him another one of her saccharine smiles. “I suspect a group of students flouting Educational Decree No. 24, and I wish to . . . help them be truthful.”

Severus considered her for a moment. Educational Decree 24 concerned student groups. No doubt, she had her sights set on something bigger than breaking up the underground three-dimensional wizard's chess tournament in the Ravenclaw tower.

As much as Severus was disinclined to help students, he was even more disinclined to help this pink nightmare. And, if things went as pear-shaped as he was sure they were wont, and she ended up questioning Potter, Weasley, or Granger, any number of secrets about the Order of the Phoenix could be discovered.

(For some reason, the sudden thought of Potter made him uneasy whereas before it would have made him irritated. He could scarcely explain why.)

In response to Umbridge, Severus rose from his desk, and said simply, “Wait here, please.”

He left her sitting in his office while he exited into the back room, where he kept his most expensive ingredients and most potent potions. He ignored the shelves filled with gleaming vials and jars of exotic (albeit, unpleasant) things, and went over to the cupboard at the back of the room. He removed a glass phial from it; he then went over to the sink in the corner of the room, turned on the tap, and filled the phial with water.

As he did so, his left arm gave a particularly nasty twinge. Gritting his teeth, he turned off the tap and corked the phial. He permitted himself to rub at his forearm once. Then, he went back to his office where Umbridge was waiting expectantly.

“This is enough Veritaserum to interrogate the entire first year cohort,” he said, handing her the phial before she could make any disapproving remarks about its small size. “Three drops is a sufficient dose.” He paused. “I am certain I don’t have to tell you that Veritaserum is a Class 3 controlled substance, and therefore requires documentation for use?”

It also required Ministry permission, which Umbridge undoubtably had. Severus watched her eye the bottle, trying not to curl his lip. Veritaserum was odorless, colorless, and tasteless. Only the viscosity, which resembled that of alcohol, distinguished it from water.

“But, of course.” Umbridge pocketed the phial and gave him another syrupy smile. “Thank you, Professor Snape. Your cooperation is most appreciated. I trust you are able to produce more, if needed?”

Severus attempted—and failed—to not be affronted by the suggestion that he could not brew the potion. He clenched his jaw. “Of course.”

“Splendid.” She rose from her seat and straightened her robes. She gave him a look that was meant to be sly and came across as simpering. “Lucius Malfoy told me that I could rely upon you.”

When Severus said nothing, she gave a girlish giggle and turned heel, exiting his office.

Once the door had closed behind her, Severus sank once again into his office chair. He glanced balefully at the stack of essays he had been marking before Umbridge had dropped in—first year potions, absolutely dismal and, in cases, totally illegible. His head throbbed just thinking about it.

A sudden searing flash of pain caused him to grunt and grip his forearm, breath escaping him in a hiss. It was gone in an instant, replaced by the customary dull ache. With some trepidation, Severus carefully rolled up his sleeve to examine the Mark.

It had been a cloudy red earlier that morning, looking more like a fresh bruise than anything. It was now a mouldy grey, the outline of the serpent and skull taking a clearer shape.

The Dark Lord was growing restless. There would be a summons soon. Severus could sense it.

His first Death Eater meeting had left him in no uncertainty about his role at the Dark Lord’s side. He would be expected to provide information. He had fourteen years’ worth to give; it was merely a question of what information would be the least harmful to the Order while still being deemed useful to the Death Eaters.

Severus gave an uncharacteristic sigh, rubbing his arm and leaning back in his high-backed office chair. He closed his eyes, clamping down on the feeling of dread that threatened to overcome him and settled instead on wallowing in his own exhaustion. The Mark on his arm gave another throb.

Allowing himself a deep breath that was almost, but not quite, another sigh, Severus opened his eyes. He would need to speak to Albus about this—and to let him know about Umbridge’s intent to use “Veritaserm” on students. He raised his left hand high into the air and gave his fingers a sharp _snap._

There was a loud _crack_ and a house elf appeared before him. “Plink, at your service,” the elf squeaked, bowing.

“Tell the Headmaster that I, Severus Snape, would like to speak with him at his earlier convenience. That will be all.”

The elf nodded. Another loud _crack_ and Severus was again alone in the office.

Severus glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 4 pm. He could likely finish this marking before dinner.

With that thought, he resolutely pulled the stack of papers towards him once again, took his red ink quill from its well, and began tearing apart essays. Dismal work though it was, it did give him some small amount of pleasure to verbally eviscerate this year’s new Gryffindors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am basically uploading chapters as soon as I have them edited at this point.


	6. A Dagger of the Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short chapter precedes a much longer one. Occlumency, ho!

_-December-_

Severus was correct to anticipate an impending Death Eater gathering. Two weeks later, he was in his private laboratory, brewing stock potions for the infirmary, when the Mark on his arm burned so fiercely that he cursed and dropped the ladle he was holding. It hit the floor with a clatter, and had not stopped rolling before Severus had placed stasis charms on the potions and swept out of the room. He grabbed his traveling cloak from his office and exited the castle as quickly as possible, making his way towards the edge of the Hogwarts grounds.

The meeting had been a strange one. They were called to order by Yaxley, who had taken on some organizational role. The Dark Lord entered and sat with them at the long table in the main hall of the manor house. He had looked at them all with his red slitted eyes, drinking in their faces before saying:

“There is an item of great importance which I require. It is being kept in the vaults of the Ministry of Magic.”

He had then told them of the prophecy—the key to his ability to defeat Harry Potter.

There had been a general murmur of excitement down the table, which was quickly silenced when the Dark Lord looked up and said, softly: “Severus.”

Severus bowed his head. “My lord.”

“What does our adversary know of this?”

And Severus had given his due: he revealed that Dumbledore had reformed the Order of the Phoenix. That Dumbledore was apparently aware the Dark Lord’s plans to obtain the prophecy, and had set up a guard to patrol the Department of Mysteries to protect it. Severus gave the names of several Order members. To do so put a sour taste in his mouth. He knew, more than anyone, that espionage was a dirty business; it necessarily required one to put others in danger to save one’s own skin. And Dumbledore—and the members in question (even Black)—had given permission for Severus to use their names, to give him credibility as a spy. Still, it felt vaguely disgusting, and he left the meeting wondering which of them he had doomed.

When Fawkes appeared in his bedchamber on the night of December 18th, he knew that he would soon find out.

“Arthur Weasley was attacked,” Albus said as Severus entered his office behind the phoenix, half past two in the morning.

Severus nodded. He had known it was Arthur’s turn to guard the Department of Mysteries. “Alive?”

“Only just. He has been rushed to Saint Mungo’s.” Albus was sitting at his desk, hands steepled, observing one of the delicate glass and silver instruments on his desk. It was tinkling and giving off faint puffs of smoke.

“Attacked by whom?”

“It appears by Voldemort’s snake,” Albus said, still not looking at Severus.

“Nagini.”

“Yes. But that is not why I have called you here. At least, not entirely.” He finally raised his eyes from the instrument, and gestured for Severus to take the seat across from him.

Severus did so, wrapping his cloak around himself. He had not bothered fully dressing when awakened by Fawkes, merely had thrown one of his standard black cloaks around his night clothes, shoved on a pair of boots, and called it good before heading to the Headmaster’s office.

“Harry was the one who saw Arthur being attacked.”

Albus’ words caught Severus off guard. “Potter?” But Potter was here, at school, not—

“He saw the attack through the eyes of Nagini.”

Severus felt as though a sheet of ice had just slid down his back. He looked at Albus, who had returned his gaze to the delicate instrument before him. The smoke it was emitting was not a bright orange color, though it did not linger. “Through her?”

Albus tilted his head. “Through Lord Voldemort, to be precise.”

Severus sat with that information for a moment, watching the instrument on Albus’ desk. The older man let him, giving him a full minute before continuing. “You, of course, can guess what this means.”

Severus nodded. It was a horrible conclusion to have drawn, but there was no escaping it. “There is an open channel—a connection between Potter’s mind and the Dark Lord’s.”

Albus nodded again. “Yes. It has been there for some time, I believe, though Voldemort has only just become aware of it. Now that he is, I fear that he may use it to our disadvantage.”

“To possess Potter?” The thought sent a frisson of revulsion through Severus.

“Or to simply access his mind.” At this, Albus sighed and closed his eyes. Severus knew Albus was old—nearly a hundred and fifty, which was getting on for a wizard—but he had always seemed spry and irritatingly lively. Now, he looked every bit as tired as a man of his age and worry ought. “As much as I have tried to shield Harry, he is aware of much more than I would like. If Lord Voldemort can access Harry’s mind . . . we will all be vulnerable.”

Severus nodded once. Albus had a knack for understatement. If the Dark Lord could invade Potter’s mind at will, they were, quite simply, fucked.

“I would like you to instruct him in Occlumency.”

Severus frowned, not just in immediate dislike of the idea of spending alone time with Potter. So; this was the reason Albus had summoned him. “Do you think that wise?”

“Wiser than teaching him myself,” Albus replied. “I cannot risk my mind being invaded by Lord Voldemort through Harry.”

Unbidden, anger flashed through Severus, hot and white. “But you can risk mine?” he demanded, rising from his chair in anger.

Albus looked up at him calmly, blue eyes clear. “Which would you prefer?” He gave Severus a small, wry smile. “You are, after all, the better and more practiced Occlumens of the two of us. I daresay you could fool even myself with your skill.”

Severus did not answer immediately, his anger already fading. Albus was, of course, correct. It was far less dangerous for Severus to teach Potter than Albus himself. Severus knew that he was a pawn in the larger web of things, but he detested being made to feel it so keenly. He wandered over to the single window at the other end of the office. He stared out into the dark winter night, thinking.

“You realize that he will hate this. I will have to make him hate it. I cannot show him any mercy or treat him differently alone in these lessons.”

“I am aware. I am only asking you to teach him, the same as you have always done.”

“Fine.” Severus turned from the window. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he asked: “Where is Potter now?”

“He and the Weasleys have gone to Grimmauld by Portkey.”

The thought of Grimmauld—and more specifically, of Black—awakened something in Severus. His old dislike, mingled with something more unsettling. He thought back to what he had found—what he _thought_ he had found—earlier that summer. “Do you think that wise?”

“You have concerns?” Albus’ voice was mild.

Severus approached Albus’ desk again, slowly, collecting his thoughts. He thought of the memory of Black touching Potter’s neck, of Potter’s blank, adoring expression. He thought of the muffled cry he had heard while walking through Grimmauld, and the night he had spent mulling his suspicions over Firewhiskey. He thought of Margaux L’estrange’s casual accusation. He thought of the argument he had overheard between Molly Weasley and Black: _“He’s not James, Sirius!”_

_Not James._

“I have concerns . . . regarding Black’s influence over Potter,” Severus said slowly. “They are both of a reckless, childish nature. I fear that Black might be. . . .”

He trailed off. He was unsure what he meant to say. Did he intend to accuse Black of something that foul? Something that he could hardly prove? What could he accomplish by it?

He thought of Potter, sitting around at Grimmauld place in the company of Black. He imagined all the moments they spent together, all of the uninterrupted time.

But, in the end, he could not bring himself to say it.

“A bad influence,” Severus finished, somewhat redundantly and lamely. And then, with his usual vitriol: “He is, after all, a delinquent.”

Albus considered him. He was not smiling as he often did when Severus expressed his dislike of Black. He simply watched Severus, blue eyes serious. “Your hatred blinds you, Severus.”

Severus did not answer that statement. Instead, he turned his back to Albus and said, “I will require the use of your pensieve.”

“Of course.”


	7. Occlumency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long chapter, and took me a while to write. It may be a week before I can update again, but I assure you that it will be well worth it.

_-January, February, March-_

It was not untrue, however, that Severus’ hatred of Black sometimes encouraged him to act in a less than cool manner.

He went to Grimmauld on the 11th of January to discuss Occlumency with Potter. Black, of course, had insisted upon being there for the interview. The man looked moody as ever. He was wearing a black button-up with the top three buttons open, exposing the top of his chest and one of his runic tattoos. He alternated between glaring at Severus with no small amount of contempt, and glaring with equal ire in the opposite direction. At their feet, a tabby kneazle wove in and out of the chair legs and human legs; Black kept giving it baleful and accusatory looks every time it brushed against Severus’ leg, as if to say, “traitor”. Black was in a mood, and not just due to Severus’ presence. If Severus had to put galleons on it, he would have bet half his vault at Gringotts that he and Black would get into it before Severus left.

And, of course, he was right.

It felt stupidly good to stand with his wand drawn against Black once more. It felt good to think that he and the other man were on the precipice of losing their respective cools and doing serious bodily harm to one another. He would not throw the first curse, but he was waiting with bated breath for Black to do so. _Do it, you fucking dog._

It felt less than spectacular to have Potter suddenly standing between them, holding his hands out towards their chests as if to physically propel them apart.

Severus looked down at Potter. The boy’s attention was directed mainly at Black, his expression both angry and imploring. Still adoring. Still saying _please._

When Arthur Weasley strode in, with his entourage in tow, Severus took a step back.

“My office, next Monday at 6,” was all he said before he exited the room.

**-HP-**

For all of Potter’s reputation as being skilled in defense against the Dark Arts, he took to Occlumency with all the grace of a fish out of water.

He was as much of a pain as Severus anticipated, interrupting Severus’ explanation at every turn. When they finally got around to practicing, Potter’s first attempts at Occlumency were dismal: Severus saw clear snippets of Potter standing in front of the Mirror of Erised; Potter, watching his cousin riding some muggle toy and burning with jealousy; Potter, being chased by a bulldog while his cousin laughed; Potter, being approached by a pretty raven-haired girl, about to be kissed—

The unintentional stinging hex from Potter had been the high point of the lesson. Severus let Potter go after a few more rounds, thoroughly convinced that the wizarding world was fucking doomed.

He did console himself with one thought as he filled himself a tumbler of scotch (Firewhiskey would not cut it tonight): he hadn’t seen any memories of Black, other than the back of Black’s scraggly mane as they flew on that blasted Hippogriff over the school. But nothing else.

**-HP-**

It was not until the second lesson that Severus glimpsed a real image of Black.

Potter had evidently not been practicing clearing his mind. Severus entered it easily, and was greeted with several images before settling in on a particular memory:

Potter was in the Shrieking Shack, his friends standing (in Weasley’s case, laying) behind him while they surveyed the grungy, deranged-looking figure that was Sirius Black, supposed mass murderer and recent Azkaban escapee. Black looked utterly disgusting, face streaked with grime, clothes torn and soiled, hair greasier than Severus’ had ever been accused of. He was nearly shrieking at Potter in a deranged, almost inhuman way, caterwauling about the rat—

“Disturbing,” Severus found himself murmuring he withdrew from Potter’s mind and the boy slumped to the floor.

It was, for once, not meant to be a snide remark, merely an observation: Potter’s first encounter with Black had been, by all accounts, terrifying. But Potter gave a weird hiccup and staggered back to his feet, giving Severus a dark look.

“Don’t,” he said. Loyal. Unflinchingly loyal.

Severus merely raised an eyebrow. “We will go again. Prepare yourself.” Then: _“Legilimens!”_

He was transported back to the graveyard where Diggory died. He watched as the Dark Lord was reborn from a reanimated infant corpse, how he had risen from the cauldron full and powerful. He watched, through Potter’s eyes, the Dark Lord’s rage as he realized that Potter would be escaping him again—

He was not thrown out, but redirected—a different memory. He watched as Potter practiced quidditch with his friend, Weasley, out at the pitch before Gryffindor practice— he watched Potter close his hands around the golden snitch— saw Potter’s gaze dart about the empty dormitory before pulling the curtains around his four-poster and slipping a hand down his pajama bottoms—

Severus pulled himself out abruptly. Potter yelled and fell to the floor again. When Potter pushed his black fringe out of his face, Severus saw that he was beet red.

It was not out of pity, but out of self-preservation that Severus simply said in his silkiest, most sneering voice, “We won’t discuss that.”

Potter said nothing. He could not even meet Severus’ eyes as he righted himself, not bothering to smooth down his rumpled robes.

Severus waited for a moment, then raised his wand. “Again.”

**-HP-**

There were, altogether, few instances like that. Severus deliberately steered away from such memories when he felt the edges of them, even though the Dark Lord wouldn’t do so. Severus’ job was to teach the boy mental self defense, not analyze his teenage wank fantasies.

Potter continued to meet with him twice a week. And Severus continued to delve into Potter’s memories.

Potter was improving, though at a snail’s pace. Apparently, even the thought of Severus Snape invading his privacy on a regular basis was not enough to make the boy practice or take this seriously. It was a complicated branch of magic, granted, but Severus had expected to find more resistance in Potter than this.

It was strange. The more Severus probed Potter’s mind, the more familiar he became with it—its terrain, its processes, its concerns and fears. It was almost as if he were getting to know Potter in some sick and twisted way.

He often saw glimpses of a young woman whom he identified to be a Ravenclaw, Miss Cho Chang. He saw evenings spent over homework with Weasley and Granger. He saw evidence of a gathering of students in a large room that he had never seen before. He chose not to comment on this last bit. The entire Order knew that Potter, Granger, and Weasley were organizing an underground defense club, after Mundungus brought them news from the Hog’s Head. As much as Severus disliked the idea of Potter gleefully engaging in rule-breaking, he decided that undermining Umbridge’s rule—even covertly—was to go unpunished for now. He let it slide.

He saw many memories of Potter living with the Dursleys. He felt the hours of boredom of being stuck, first in a dark, small space that Severus finally recognized as a closet, then in an actual bedroom, bars on the windows. He felt the almost perpetual hunger in the pit of Potter’s stomach as he read his Charms books by night, looked through the album which contained photographs of his parents. He saw through Potter’s eyes several of the rages of that vile muggle Dursley, and of the cold indifference of Petunia. He was unpleasantly surprised by these, as they were not so different from his own memories of childhood.

As with the visions of the defense club, he chose to ignore these memories in front of Potter. If he’d seen one of his Slytherins in such a situation, he would be inclined to tell the Headmaster; what he saw bordered on abuse, or at least severe neglect.

But Albus already knew. It was impossible that he didn’t, and Albus had not pulled him from the home. Had been very insistent, in fact, that Potter stay there each summer. So, Severus did not mention it.

So preoccupied was Severus with these memories and thoughts—visions that painted a very different picture of Potter than he liked to imagine—that it was some time before Severus realized what he was missing from Potter’s mind.

**-HP-**

Occasionally, Potter managed to defend himself. It was sporadic and did not appear to be attributable to any discipline on Potter’s part, but it did happen. There was a particular instance in which Potter successfully threw Severus from his mind and used a Shield Charm—which effectively reversed the directionality of the Legilimency and allowed Potter into Severus’ own mind.

It was Severus’ surprise more than anything that allowed Potter to see as much as he did. Snippets of his own miserable childhood flashed before Severus, and he found himself sneering at what a pitiful child he was. When he finally did throw Potter out of his mind, the boy looked utterly shaken. Severus knew what he was thinking: Could that scrawny boy he had seen crying in those memories be standing before him now?

Potter had probably never thought of Severus as a child. What an ugly revelation that must have been.

It irritated Severus that Potter had seen those memories; yet also gave him a grim sense of satisfaction. That sense of satisfaction grew when, later in the lesson, he rebuffed Potter’s insistent inquisitiveness with:—

“You are neither special nor important, and it is not up to you to find out what the Dark Lord is saying to his Death Eaters.”

And Potter, perhaps without thinking, had replied:

“No— that's your job, isn't it?”

In the silence that stretched between them, Severus watched Potter’s face. The boy had obviously surprised himself and was now wondering if he had gone too far.

But Severus could not fault him for being right.

“Yes, Potter,” he said softly, “That is my job.”

For a moment, Potter looked at him—really _looked_. It was strangely intimate, perhaps even more so than dipping into each other’s minds. They had never been in a situation in which the scale of power was not tipped grossly in one direction or another; they had never been in a room together without expressing their hatred of one another. But now Severus sat under the scrutiny of those bright green eyes and watched as a shred more of Potter’s innocence fell away. Watched as Potter looked at his most-hated teacher and understood ( _understood_ ) what Severus Snape really was.

“Now,” Severus continued just as quietly, “If you are ready, we will start again.”

**-HP-**

It was only later, when he was again dipping into the steady stream of Potter’s ill-hidden thoughts and memories that Severus realized: There were very few memories of Black.

Perhaps that was to be expected. After all, Potter spent very little time with Black in the course of his life. The only substantial amount of time they had spent together was during this most recent summer holiday, and then over winter break. Memories were bound to be few and scarce.

But there were almost none. He caught a glimpse of Potter and Black sitting in the kitchen at Grimmauld, laughing. Again in the kitchen, Potter hugging Black (warm, strong, the faint scents of cologne and drink intermingling). Black sitting around a fire on Christmas with the rest of the Weasleys, singing inane holiday tunes, looking over every now and then to smile and wink at Potter. Black’s head appearing in the fire of the Gryffindor common room. Very little else. The earliest memories were crisp and imbued with a sense of bright and uncomplicated fondness; these more recent ones were dimmer, shadowy around the edges, and contained a mix of emotions Severus could not parse. 

It was not until Severus saw one memory in particular that he began to understand what was wrong.

**-HP-**

_Potter and Black were sitting in Black’s old bedroom. Black was showing him the tapestry on the wall, then had pulled out some old photographs. They were both sitting on the bed, photographs spread between them. Black was very close, his knee touching Potter’s. Potter kept looking up at Black, even as he was meant to be looking at the photos—but every time, Black’s gaze was there to meet his. There was something unsettling about those dark eyes. Watchful. Anticipatory._

_Black opened his mouth to speak—_

And Severus suddenly felt himself sliding sideways out of the memory.

At first, he thought it was due to Potter fighting back—but when he looked at the floor where Potter had slumped, he saw that the boy was totally unconscious. Severus had simply slipped off the edge of the memory.

He stood there for a moment, trying to comprehend what had happened. Potter being out cold shouldn’t have ejected Severus From his mind—merely made it easier to invade. Then what—?

Potter began to stir, and Severus bent so seize him by the arm and haul him roughly up straight. He pushed the boy back into a chair and conjured up a pitcher and a glass of water. He poured a glass and shoved it in front of Potter’s face.

“Drink.”

Potter was too dazed to do anything else. He gulped the water and his gaze slid uneasily back into focus. “What happened?” he asked groggily.

“You fainted,” Severus answered coldly.

Potter looked down into the now empty glass. When he spoke next, he sounded utterly exhausted.

“Are we going again?”

“No. You may leave.”

Severus watched silently as Potter collected himself and left. He stood in the middle of his office for several long minutes, pondering. He felt strangely . . . slick. As if he had physically slid out of Potter’s memory.

It was a disturbingly familiar feeling.

**-HP-**

He was once again hurtling down one of the long corridors of Potter’s mind when it happened again.

It was as if his foot had caught on something oily. He slid from that memory into another, unbidden. Potter was doing an admittedly decent job of trying to fend him off—some of his thoughts and memories were instantaneous flashes rather than fully fledged experiences. Finally, showing some steady improvement, miniscule though it was. But that was not what had projected Severus from memory to memory.

He withdrew from Potter’s mind. The boy was panting, forehead glistening with sweat. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.

Severus watched him for a moment, wondering. Debating. He was so undecided that he was surprised to hear his own voice, saying:

“I would like you to try something, Potter.”

Potter had mostly gotten his breath back. He threw one of his customary glares at Severus. “What?” he nearly spat.

Severus was tempted to make him say _“sir”_ but thought better of it. “I want you to relax.”

Potter snorted. Severus ignored him.

“This time, when I attempt to enter your mind, I do not want you to resist me.”

“Why?”

Severus watched him for a moment, black eyes impassive. Finally:

“I am going to check for something.”

Reticent as Potter looked, he nevertheless closed his eyes. His brow smoothed and his face calmed. He did not quite manage to be completely relaxed—there was still tension in his jaw, and his mouth was pressed firmly together—but it would do. Finally, he opened his startling green eyes and looked directly at Severus. He gave the barest of nods.

Softly, Severus whispered: _“Legilimens.”_

He entered Potter’s mind easily, more easily than he had done moments before when Potter was resisting. He waded carefully, carding superficially through things he had already seen before, things that would not make Potter tense up and resist—class, library sessions, quidditch, Black—

Severus deftly rounded on the memory. Black was smiling at Potter, his face close. Their surroundings were dim, dark—

And then, the _whole thing_ went dark. Severus went for it again, this time with more difficulty—Potter did not want him there—but could not follow the memory through. He slid past it, Black’s face warping into—

Darkness.

Something cold and heavy settled like a block of ice in the pit of Severus’ stomach.

He withdrew from Potter’s mind, almost physically recoiling from him.

Potter looked dazed. He was sweating again and his cheeks were flushed. His eyes were unfocused. Almost like—

“You may go, Potter.”


	8. Cacoethes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the hardest chapter to write and actually went through several intense revisions.

_-March-_

After Potter left, Severus sat in his office for a long time, fingers steepled together, thinking.

It was tempting to lie to himself and say that he was simply building up his case. Mentally organizing his evidence. In truth, he trying to gain the courage to face his foregone conclusion.

It was one thing to accuse a long-hated enemy of being a bastard. Of being an idiot. Of being disgusting and cruel and a coward.

It was another to accuse them of something this vile.

All of Severus’ evidence was circumstantial. He had no direct proof of anything. There could be a hundred explanations individually for everything he had seen; but there was only one that explained them all.

He could not talk himself out of it.

In an almost trance-like daze, he rose from his chair. Running one hand thoughtlessly down the buttons on the front of his robes, he strode across his office, opened the door, and exited into the hallway.

**-HP-**

It took him almost no time at all to reach the gargoyle outside of the Headmaster’s office. He uttered the password woodenly (“Lemon Meringue”) and climbed the stairs up to the office door.

Before he could raise his hand to knock, the door opened in front of him. From within the office, a serene voice called, “Ah, Severus. Do come in.”

Severus moved into the office; its curious and cosy atmosphere never brought him the sense of comfort that it was surely meant to. Very few of his encounters in this office were pleasant, even if Albus mostly maintained his ineffably affable demeanour through them.

Speaking of which, the aforementioned Headmaster seemed to realize instantly that something was amiss. He was sat behind his desk in resplendent purple robes; he had been pouring over some scrolls but now abandoned them to watch Severus from over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, blue eyes shining in their intensity.

Severus himself was battling with what to say. He did not approach Albus’ desk immediately, but instead went to a side table where several instruments lay. He lay a finger on the edge of a Foe-Glass wherein dark shapes were looming in the background. One of them had approached the surface of the glass in earnest; Severus could almost make out his face.

“I am encountering problems with Potter.”

He did turn then. Albus was still watching him. Eventually, he replied in a light tone: “I never expected this to be easy for him. I am sure he is trying his best.”

Severus gritted his teeth. There was something like panic brewing in the pit of his stomach and he did his best to tamp it down. “He is an appalling Occlumens, but that it not what I mean.”

With a politely curious look, Albus gestured at Severus to take a seat in the chair across from his desk. Reluctantly, Severus walked over to it and lowered himself into the seat. Though the chair was ridiculously plush, Severus managed to sit ramrod straight, his hands in his lap.

“What is it, then, dear boy?”

Severus bristled at the hypocorism. He looked down at his hands, spidery, pale, potion-stained. His felt his nostrils flare in disgust. _Just say it, damnit._

“Potter is missing memories.”

The words ground out of him painfully. He chanced a quick look up at Albus, but the old man’s face was totally impassive, blank as stone. When Albus said nothing, Severus continued:

“I found black holes in his mind. Incomplete memories. Places where content was removed, and then smoothed over.”

Still, Albus’ expression did not shift.

“You are . . . certain of this?”

Severus nodded. “I have seen such things before.”

Twice, in fact. Once, when examining someone the Dark Lord had interrogated: their mind had been practically ripped to shreds, pieces of thoughts sliding all over the place, memories like half-formed words rising and dying in fitful tides. It had been ugly. The second time had been several years ago: he’d been called by Pomfrey to assess a fourth year who’d gotten into a duel with a combatant who had used _Obliviate_ as an offensive spell. In both of those cases, the damage had been distinct, like something had been forcibly ripped from the person’s mind.

In Potter’s case, it was different: the missing memories seemed almost gently removed, as if someone had tried to smooth the ragged edges where it had been—though it was still poorly done. This could either be the result of tampering, or could be the mind’s own mechanisms of repair. Either way, it pointed to the same thing. 

Albus sat back in his chair. His entire expression had become intensely serious, quiet in a powerful sort of way.

“Yes,” he said finally, “I suppose you have.” A pause. “I confess, I was hoping this would not happen.”

Caught completely off-guard, Severus gaped. He felt as if someone had just yanked the stupid plush chair from under him. “You—what?”

Albus turned his gaze from Severus to Fawkes, who was preening on his perch. “I knew there was some possibility, of course. The Dark Lord will use whatever means are at his disposal; and I am certain he has no qualms about battering the mind he is connected to.”

Severus felt some of the blood return to his face, understanding. He shook his head once, jerkily. “That is not—I do not believe it is the Dark Lord’s doing.”

For some reason, it was _this_ comment that shifted the Headmaster’s expression into the realm of concerned. As if to have Voldemort muddling Potter’s memories was a trifling issue compared to someone else doing it.

“What do you suspect, Severus?”

Someone who did not know Albus Dumbledore as well or for as long as Severus did might not understand this question; but Severus heard how carefully Albus had worded it. _Suspect._ Severus looked briefly back down at his hands.

“I think someone else has been tampering with Potter’s memory. Someone close to him.”

Albus said nothing. Severus took a deep breath.

“I think that Black is responsible.”

A pregnant and strange pause followed that. Albus was watching Severus with a cool, steady gaze that held no warmth, none of that twinkling mirth he was so famous for. It was a look that Severus had not seen in many years, Albus was looking at him as he once had, sixteen years ago, when Severus had come to him as a Death Eater.

As if he was trying to decide how far to trust Severus.

“You have proof of this?”

“I do not possess any . . . tangible evidence.” Severus thought back to the sounds he had heard in Grimmauld place, the trace of what may or may not have been a memory charm. Whispers. Scraps. Nothing he could lay a finger on. Nothing conclusive. 

“Severus,” Albus said, sounding both weary and grave. “This is a very serious accusation. What makes you suspect Sirius?”

“As far as I can discern, all of the modified memories were of Black. I have seen things at Grimmauld Place that look . . . untoward. Moreover, even _you_ have to admit that the relationship between Black and Potter is . . . unnaturally close—given how little they know each other.”

“It is not for me to govern family ties, Severus. And I do not understand why Sirius—who, as you admit, is very close to Harry—would want to modify his memories.” 

“He would if he was abusing Potter and did not want him to remember that fact.”

It was time for yet another silence, this one uglier than the last. Albus’ expression was harder than Severus had ever seen it. He seemed to be radiating power in a way that made the hairs on Severus’ arms stand on end. He was angry.

It almost scared Severus; but it made _him_ angry as well.

“Severus, I think you go too far,” Albus said coldly. “I do not believe that Sirius would ever hurt Harry. He would never hurt James Potter’s son.”

“You have always turned a blind eye to him,” Severus all but growled. He could feel his anger—which, until now, had been simmering beneath the chilly apprehension of accusing Black—rising up to the surface. “He is not merely a reckless young man any longer—he is a dangerous, fully grown wizard. I do not think he should be allowed to—”

“You have always seen the worst of him, Severus.”

Severus knew that he should not lose his temper. He knew that his anger—uncontrollable as it sometimes was—made him seem unhinged, unreasonable. Raw emotion had never served him well; but he found, in that moment, that he could not contain it. His anger was like a molten metal in his grasp, seeping through his fingers. Albus was not _listening_ to him.

“Have you forgotten?!” he yelled, rising from his chair so fast that it nearly toppled backward. His hands were balled into fists at his sides and he felt as though all of the blood in his body had rushed to his head. “Have you forgotten that he nearly had me _murdered_?! — and he was only fifteen then! What do you think years in Azkaban would have done to a man with tendencies like that—?!”

_“Enough.”_

Albus had barely raised his voice, but he may as well have shouted. It was as if Severus had been silenced by a spell, though the Headmaster had no need for such a thing. Even still, he found himself seething, wanting to say something, wanting to condemn Black, to at least make Albus see his suspicion, but he found that he could not speak.

“I will say it again: your hatred blinds you, Severus.”

Those words seemed to take the wind out of Severus. He felt completely powerless in the wake of them. Albus would not listen to him. For all that he claimed to respect and require Severus’ council, he would not hear him out on this. 

Albus trusted Severus to do his bidding; but he did not trust his judgement.

And Severus would not waste time playing the histrionic idiot. Not this time.

“No,” he said softly. “I am simply able to see the worst in him with sparkling clarity.”

He turned his back, intending to make a swift exit, but Albus called to him:

“Do keep an eye on Harry, Severus,” Albus said, voice even and nearly affectless. “Though we may disagree about the origin of these missing memories, I do take them very seriously. Do all that you can to ensure he makes progress with Occlumency. He needs you now more than ever.”

Severus gave a single jerky nod. With that, he strode forward and exited the office, flying down the spiral staircase in a flurry of black robes. His feet carried him through the halls, out one of the castle side doors. He was halfway across the grounds before he realized where he was going.

As soon as he stood on the other side of the gate, he Apparated.

**-HP-**

He Apparated directly into the back garden of 12 Grimmauld Place. He staggered a bit, having Apparated so forcefully that his body had not been quite ready for it. When he looked up at the rowhouse, he saw that a light was on in the kitchen.

He approached the house and threw open the door so forcefully that the two people sitting at the kitchen table jumped and had drawn their wands before they saw who the intruder was. Remus Lupin and Sirius Black were sitting on opposite benches of the long dining table, looking as though they had just been deep in conversation. They both looked at Severus with confusion, Lupin with concern.

“Severus,” Lupin began, lowering his wand, “What—?”

Severus ignored him, striding past them towards the door that lead from the kitchen to the hallway. “Black, I need to speak with you.”

Severus did not turn to look, but he knew that Black was following him by the sound of shuffling and scraping. Severus exited the kitchen and turned down the long, dark hallway, not really knowing where he was going until he was before the door with the shiny black handle.

He opened it roughly and stepped inside. Moments later, Black appeared in the doorway.

“Close the door.”

Black, looking bewildered and uneasy, entered the room and closed the door.

Severus drew out his wand. Black immediately tensed and reached again for his own, but Severus cast him a scornful look before flourishing his wand and throwing up a Silencing Charm. He stowed his wand back in his robe pocket.

Black’s expression was shifting rapidly from bewildered to irritated. When he spoke, his voice was edgy, tense:

“What the hell do you want, Snivellus—?”

“Be careful with that boy.”

For a moment, Black stared at him, a disgusted and utterly uncomprehending look gracing his handsome but worn features. “What?”

“I _said_ : Be careful with Harry Potter. He isn’t his father.”

Something about that phrase caught Black. Severus could see the miniscule shift in his expression going from confused to suspicious. A sliver of worry crept into Black’s eyes.

Something deep in the pit of Severus’ stomach clenched almost painfully with horrible relish. He felt his lip curl and knew his own expression was obscene, but he was watching comprehension beginning to dawn on Black’s features—and it gave him such a rush, such a feeling of righteousness that he had been missing.

Because Black’s subtly shifting expression told Severus everything.

Merlin _. He was right._

Black’s voice, when he attempted to speak next, had a noticeable waver in it: “Nice of you to finally notice, Sn—”

Severus ignored him, snarling, “I don’t know what kind of—what kind of _relationship_ you had with James Potter—but I do not believe that such things are heirlooms to be passed to the younger generation, do you?”

There was some quick thinking going on behind Black’s nervous eyes, and he seemed to be conjuring his own anger as a shield, raising his voice to a near shout. “You don’t know anything about it—”

“For fuck’s sake, Black—the boy is _fifteen._ ”

An absolutely deafening silence followed.

Black stared at him for several long minutes before attempting to speak again.

“What— what the _hell_ are you implying?”

“I have no kind of proof for my suspicions,” Severus said slowly, making his voice lethally soft. His earlier conversation with Albus echoed in his mind. “But rest assured, if I do find . . . _tangible evidence_ that you’ve behaved inappropriately towards your _godson_ . . . Albus will be the first to know.”

Never mind that Severus had just tried to tell Albus and been ignored— Black’s face had gone absolutely and satisfyingly white. In rage, or fear, it was impossible to say. He was staring at Severus almost as if he did not believe what he was hearing.

“You’re disgusting,” he croaked, his dark eyes dancing with something that looked like fear.

Severus gave an ugly and mirthless smile. “Pot, kettle.”

That seemed to shift Black out of his momentary stupor. His handsome face contorted into a look of utter contempt and he stepped forward towards Severus, menacing. “Dumbledore won’t believe whatever poisonous drivel you feed him. _Mine_ is not the dubious loyalty, Snivellus.”

Snape narrowed his black eyes. “Would you like to bet on that, Black?”

Black gazed at him contemptuously. “You would love to put me away for anything, wouldn’t you? You’d love a reason to hand me back to the dementors, any reason at all. It’s pathetic.”

“Pathetic, am I? _I_ am not the one hiding out in my mother’s home and preying on—”

“ENOUGH! SHUT UP!” Black roared. There was a dark flash of movement and, suddenly, something solid connected with Severus’ jaw, turning his head so hard and so fast that he heard his neck crack. Caught off balance, he stumbled backwards— but, even as he did so, his hand had plunged instinctively into his robes and he withdrew his wand.

Black, fist still raised, seemed stunned by his own actions. He continued to look stunned as Severus levelled his wand at him. Severus could taste copper in his mouth; his lip was bleeding and one of his teeth felt slightly loose, but he didn’t care. He bared a bloody smile at Black, wand held steady.

“You were always a mongrel,” Severus snarled. “Killing you would be like putting down a rabid dog.”

Black’s look shifted from stunned to stormy, though the anger in his expression was not entirely outwardly directed. “Then _do_ it,” he said simply.

Severus stared back at him. How many times as a youth had he daydreamed of killing Black? The idea had lost none of its sweetness— no, not even twenty years later. Severus absolutely _despised_ Black, even more than he despised James Potter. He had often dreamed of retribution, taken relish in those fantasies and used them to feed his own anger.

But this was different.

As Severus continued to watch Black, he felt the hot, searing anger that had been so familiar to him ebb. It lowered its flame, cooled, became gelid, until it felt like Severus’ chest was encased in ice. And he did not think, then, of himself. Instead, the vision of Potter’s pale, wan, sweaty face swam to the surface of his mind. He saw Potter, glaring at him, defending Black. He saw Potter, looking adoringly up into Black’s face. The thoughts sealed Severus’ chest like a cold tomb.

This was an altogether different kind of anger. Not blind, but exacting.

Severus did not want to merely kill Black.

He wanted to _hurt_ him.

He wanted to castrate him. He wanted to methodically break every one of his joints for daring to lay a fucking finger on a child. He wanted to slowly flay Black alive before feeding him his own skin—

“Your death would do us all a world of good—Potter not least of all,” he said finally, not lowering his wand.

It was Black’s turn to sneer again, the expression disfiguring his handsome features. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend to suddenly care about Harry. Everyone knows how you feel about him.”

“As a member of the Order and his teacher, it is my job to protect him. My _feelings_ are irrelevant—”

Black had opened his mouth to respond but, at that very moment, there was a knock at the door. Before either Black or Severus could speak, the door opened to reveal Lupin who, though preternaturally shabby and weary, looked very alert. His own wand was not drawn, but he looked between Black and Severus with some trepidation.

“Everything all right, gentlemen?”

Reluctantly, Severus lowered his wand. He glanced briefly at Lupin before swiftly stepping up to Black so that their faces were inches apart. Black looked startled, but Severus merely narrowed his eyes and said in a soft, deadly voice:

“I am _warning_ you.”

Before Black could respond, Severus stepped around him. Lupin had to stumble back as Severus swept out the door of the bedroom and down the dark hallway, moving back towards the kitchen. He could hear behind him Lupin asking Black what had happened, then a thud and footsteps behind him. Severus did not turn to look, but entered the kitchen, crossed it in four quick strides, and was out the door before he heard Black calling:

“Snape! Snape—!”

But Severus did not stop, did not turn. He descended the crumbling steps from the house to the back garden and, robes billowing about him. He turned just in time to see Black coming down the garden steps after him, Lupin shouting and hot at his heels before Severus turned and Disapparated with a loud _crack._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to go back to the canon and re-read how Severus and Albus interact with each other during points of contention. Because, as much as Dumbledore is painted to be a fair, omnipotent, wise man with an even temper, he does have a harsh side. We see that in Severus’ memories when Dumbledore rebukes him (DH). We also see it in PoA, when Severus begins to say he suspects Remus Lupin of letting Black into the castle and Dumbledore sharply interjects. Moreover, Severus has previously demonstrated himself to be driven—and misguided—by his own hatred and prejudice. He does not always have the best judgement where Harry, James, or Sirius are concerned.


	9. Sight Unseen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wasn’t going to write this chapter, but I felt there were some gaps to close. Also, I really wanted to explore—at least a little—the scene where Harry looks into the pensieve. In many ways, I think Snape’s reaction in that scene (in the book as well as here) was motivated by fear as much as anger. In some ways, the fear is the source of the anger. 
> 
> My original intent was to post this chapter and the next back-to-back, but I'm having to do some serious revisions... so. One at a time. Also, I know I've been adding chapters, but I PROMISE there are actually, now only 11. No more. We've got two left to go.

_-April-_

Severus never found out what Black said to Lupin to explain that scene. He deduced that it must have been something foul because, at the next Order meeting three weeks later, Lupin kept glancing surreptitiously at Severus with a look of disconcerted consternation. Black, on the other hand, was trying to murder Severus with his gaze alone. He spent the entire meeting not speaking, drinking beer from a dirty cup, glaring daggers at Severus. No matter. Severus ignored them both and left Grimmauld almost before everyone else had gotten up from their chairs.

Since his failed plea to Albus, Severus had taken to avoiding the Headmaster. He stopped frequenting meals in the Great Hall as regularly, was sure to avoid the staff room in the evenings, as the old man could sometimes be found taking tea with Minerva or Filius, or whoever happened to be there. If Albus was aware of Severus’ avoidance, he made no move to correct it. There had been no summons to Death Eater gatherings, and so they had no real reason to speak.

In truth, Severus felt betrayed by Albus. This was not a new feeling. He had felt a similar way two years ago, when Albus had aided Black’s escape—and deprive Severus of an Order of Merlin to boot. In some ways, he thought it foolish of himself to expect anything more of Albus; he was, after all, a great man with great plans. He could not be bothered with Severus’ petty suspicions.

The thought rankled. Some days, Severus thought that he might actually despise the old man.

And then, the very worst happened.

Severus had not been present that day, but the news of what had happened spread around the school like wildfire—that, and it was only a matter of time before Minerva brought him the truth of the news:

Potter and his little herd of miscreants had finally gotten caught by Umbridge. And this little underground defense group had called themselves “Dumbledore’s Army”— of all bloody things.

So, of course, Albus took the blame for it and fled. And now, Hogwarts was without its protector, under the rule of a fuchsia-loving tyrant.

After some fashion, Severus knew that he should not be unnerved by this development. Albus had hinted to him months ago that he might need to leave Hogwarts for a short time. There was no force on earth—besides death—that could keep Albus Dumbledore from his precious school for long. But the timing of his departure was so completely inopportune that Severus could not help the irritation he felt at Potter and his brethren for getting caught.

It certainly left the rest of the school in a fucking conundrum. Umbridge tightened her claw-like grip over the school in a way that felt nearly suffocating. Educational Decrees were flying out the door faster than anyone could keep up with them; and then, there was the Inquisitorial Squad.

When Severus first saw the notice posted outside the Slytherin Common Room, he discretely took it down. It was a stupid thing to do—there were plenty more flyers all over the school—but the little act of rebellion gave him resolve. He knew that certain of his Slytherins would jump at the opportunity to enforce the rule of law on their fellow students. He knew how appealing that would be to many of them, as they were shunned and insulted by the rest of the school. He also knew that it would set many of them on a path from which they could not easily stray.

Umbridge’s little Inquisitorial Squad was a thinly veiled attempt for Fudge to make his own student army at Hogwarts. Today, the Squad was able to deduct House points and give detentions—tomorrow? Perhaps they would be given leave to use the Cruciatus curse on their fellow classmates. Severus knew how these things went. If the students were ever asked to do such a thing, they could not but comply. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon.

So, he did what he could to discourage his students. He sharply reminded them that final exams were fast approaching, that any extracurriculars would be detrimental to their progress. He encouraged the Slytherin Quidditch team to train hard and often to preclude any chance of being beaten. He reminded the fifth- and seventh-year students of their O.W.L.’s and N.E.W.T.’s, and how he expected everyone to earn an E if not an O. Every time he saw another poster for the Inquisitorial Squad outside of the common room or near his dungeons, he took them down.

And, as he saw more and more of his students bearing Inquisitorial Squad badges, he hoped to Merlin that Albus would return soon. He was losing control over his own house. 

**-HP-**

Severus continued his lessons with Potter after Albus left. It seemed the thing to do, and it had apparently (as Severus saw later while swimming lazily through Potter’s mind) been one of Albus’ last requests of Potter before disappearing. However, as far as Severus could tell, whatever improvements Potter had made in the beginning had all but stagnated. This boy could resist the Imperious curse, for Merlin’s sake! If he was not making progress in Occlumency, Severus could only assume that it was because he didn’t _want_ to. He wanted to continue dreaming of that dark hallway in the Department of Mysteries, wanted to dream long enough to open that door, damn the consequences. The boy lacked all discipline.

Had it been anyone else—or had it been any other situation—Severus would have simply told Potter he was too hopeless and too lazy and put a stop to the lessons. That they were both wasting their time trying to improve his skills. Potter certainly was not getting anything out of it, at this point.

Severus, however, found that he was.

He did not enjoy reliving Potter’s experiences or memories. It left him feeling distinctly unclean. Nevertheless, he looked forward to these Occlumency lessons about as much as Potter did. However, there was one advantage: he was able to reassure himself that Black was behaving.

He knew Potter had gone to Weasley’s and then Grimmauld Place for the Easter holidays. Severus awaited the Occlumency lesson following this with an uneasy kind of anticipation. If Black had not taken his warning seriously . . . well, he was not quite sure _what_ he would do. Dumbledore was no longer around to play the theoretical enforcer—on the bright side, that gave Severus the liberty to hex Black’s balls of himself. . . . 

However, when he next delved into Potter’s mind, he saw no evidence of misconduct from Black, no additional memories which had been modified. No, instead what he saw were evenings spent with a brooding, sullen, somewhat unkempt man who spoke little and looked at Potter even less. Severus could even feel Potter’s frustration in these memories, and it made him grimly triumphant.

“What?” Potter asked him insolently, noticing one such expression as he picked himself up off the floor.

Severus schooled his expression back into something stony. “I would prefer you to address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir’, Potter.”

Potter remained silent, apparently deciding it was not worth it to understand his greasy old potions professor. He simply dusted himself off and presented himself once more for attack. Severus obliged him. And, even as Potter once again failed to completely dispel Severus from his mind, Severus felt a sense of satisfaction that he had done something right by the blasted boy.

**-HP-**

But then, of course, Potter nearly cocked it all up.

The evening had begun as it often did. Potter arrived just as Severus was extracting the usual memories that he would rather Potter not see. Prior to starting lessons with Potter in January, Severus had identified a total of thirteen memories that he deemed essential to keep from Potter. Considering that he had thirty-six years to draw upon, that he should have to hide so few was remarkable—and, as of late, a testament to his tactics and skill in subterfuge. He was extremely meticulous about removing these memories before the beginning of each lesson, lest Potter access them accidentally; he was equally as meticulous about not leaving them lying about in the pensieve to be discovered.

(It only occurred to him after the fact that he should have never conducted this business of removing memories in front of Potter. He should not even have let Potter know that he had Albus’ pensieve; but, he had been careless.)

He felt Potter observe him as he extracted the last of the memories from his skull and set them gently in to the pensieve. When he finished, he turned to Potter, who continued to watch him.

“So,” he said. “Have you been practising?”

The boy looked dead at him and lied through his teeth. “Yes.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we?” Severus asked, voice not betraying his internal grimace. “Wand out, Potter.”

Potter obeyed. They were just about to begin when Draco Malfoy knocked at the door.

Of all the stupid things that had ever befallen his students, Severus could not ever remember someone getting _stuck_ in a toilet before. He told Potter to go and went to attend to the scene—which was, actually much worse than Malfoy had let on. Montague looked as though he had tried to Apparate into the toilet, and had managed to not only splinch himself—which caused him to scream in pain—but also to fuse himself _with_ a toilet.

Umbridge, who was at the scene, was of absolutely no help (the woman was completely out of her depth since the teachers, students, and staff decided to collectively turn on her); but Severus managed to clear the issue up quickly. He used some (if he said so, ingenious) spellwork to un-splinch Montague and detach him from his new porcelain body parts. Severus made Montague swallow a calming draught and treated his wounds with dittany (both of which he commonly kept on his person); he then placed him on a stretcher, and instructed Malfoy to take him to the hospital wing.

He was returning to his chambers in an irritated mood when he saw a site that made his blood run cold.

Potter was still in his office. And he was standing with his face in the pensieve.

He swept close to Potter, a thick rage bubbling in his chest. He seized Potter’s arm in a vice-like grip and seethed:

“Having fun?”

It was not gratifying to see the somewhat terrified look on Potter’s face. He wanted to shout at Potter—but he was so incredibly angry that his voice only escaped him in a low hiss.

“So . . . been enjoying yourself, _Potter_?”

He found himself spitting the surname with all the vehemence that he had reserved for the original. The foolish, ignorant, insolent—

Potter’s eyes widened as Severus gripped his arm even more tightly. He tried to speak, but Severus cut him off.

“Amusing man, your father, wasn't he?” he asked acidly, shaking Potter so hard that his glasses slipped down his nose. The boy now looked truly frightened, but Severus could not bring himself to stop.

“I didn’t—”

Severus did not have a clear memory of what happened after that. He knew that he growled at Potter and physically threw him as hard as he could across the dungeon. He knew that he shouted—something about not telling anyone what Potter had seen—before telling Potter, in no uncertain terms, to get out and never return.

It was not until Potter had departed the dungeon, leaving him in absolute silence, that Severus realized how fast and how loudly his heart was beating.

**-HP-**

He stood there for many moments afterwards, trying to control his breathing, the pace of his heart, the erratic and panicked mechanics of his mind.

Potter had only seen the one memory. Of that, Severus was certain. He knew its duration, its ins and outs—there was no way Potter could have gone through more than that one before Severus returned from helping Montague. And, of all the memories he could have seen. . . .

Severus let out a shaky breath. He supposed he should count himself lucky. Lucky that Potter had not seen Severus himself holding the corpse of Lily in his arms while Potter himself, only a babe, bawled in the background.

Severus growled in frustration as he stormed over to the pensieve. He gripped the ridges of the stone basin and stared moodily into its silvery, swirling contents. This was precisely _why_ he had asked to borrow Albus’ pensieve in the first place. Potter had no business seeing those sorts of memories, even if it was by accident. They were _his_ memories, _his_ secrets. His shame. Never mind that Albus had expressly forbid him from telling Potter anything he should not know.

Realizing that he was positively shaking, Severus recoiled from the pensieve, drawing his arms around himself in an attempt to stop the infernal convulsions; but his body seemed not to care for his whims. He managed to pull himself over to his desk before slumping into the high-backed chair. With no one to see him, he put his hands over his face. The twin forces of anger and fear coiled around Severus, seizing him in a vice-like grip. He slammed his fist down on the desk.

 _Damn Potter_. Damn him and his bloody curiosity. Damn him for seeing those memories, memories which Severus still found painful, after all these years. Damn him for nearly exposing Severus—for, if Potter had seen any more, Severus was sure that his cover would be blown. He could protect his own mind from the Dark Lord’s perusal, but if Potter had one of Severus’ memories in his own head. . . .

The Dark Lord would have seen it easily. Severus would have been made within a week. All of Severus’ work—his entire life for the past fourteen years . . . it would have been all for nothing.

It would have been all Potter’s fault.

And the boy had no _fucking clue_.

He cast a glance back at the door through which Potter had fled. He recalled the image of the boy’s face, thin and pale and frightened. He looked much more a child then than he had looked all year. He was still just a boy.

An insufferable, entitled, irresponsible boy.

**-HP-**

Potter did as he was told, for once: he stayed away. He did not approach Severus for Occlumency lessons, and he kept his head down in class. As far as Severus could tell, he had frightened the boy sufficiently enough that he had not told anyone what he had seen.

This did not give Severus any satisfaction; nor did his tormenting Potter in class, though he renewed his efforts in this with aplomb. He expected to derive _some_ enjoyment out of belittling the boy, essentially calling him an idiot, and making his life (in class) miserable. But, as soon as he looked at Potter’s scruffy, pale, insolent, fragile features, any pleasure he might have taken in putting that sullen or angry expression there vanished. In a normal person, this would have resulted in the cessation of such hazing; in Severus’ very special case, it only increased both his ire and his disgust.

Whether he was disgusted with himself, or Potter, he could not say.

He occasionally wondered, as he watched Potter inexpertly brew his potions, whether or not he should swallow his own fucking pride and demand that Potter return to Occlumency lessons. He had given his word to Albus that he would do what he could for Potter, and the boy still needed protecting—even if it was from himself and his closest family members.

But he would have no further opportunities to see Black until the summer holidays; and Severus could not let go of his anger.

Perhaps he stalked the halls that Potter frequented more than usual. Perhaps he began attending meals in the Great Hall once more, just so that he could cast a single glance at Potter to make sure the boy still stood upright. Nevertheless, he did not encounter Potter again outside of class until June.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you all know what comes next; the way it happens, however, may surprise you.


	10. The Department of Mysteries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversation in Umbridge’s office is lifted directly from HP5. This is a LONG chapter and I was tempted to break it into two, but I didn’t want to raise the chapter count again since I promised you lot that I’d stop at 11. 
> 
> This chapter also features Severus in unassisted flight. I thought it would be cool to include, and it made sense in the storyline. Also, by book 7, Severus appears quite adept at the skill, so we can assume he has been practicing it for a while.

_-June-_

Severus anticipated nothing good when Draco Malfoy appeared to summon him to the High Inquisitor’s office that evening in June. None of Severus’ previous visits had been remotely pleasant, and Draco’s gleeful, “she’s got Potter” was not encouraging. He strode ahead of Draco on the way to Umbridge’s office, wondering what kind of nonsense Potter had gotten himself into this time.

Approximately thirteen faces looked up to see him enter the doorway after Draco. Severus swept his dark eyes over the scene. Ronald Weasley, Granger, Ginevra Weasley, Longbottom, and a wispy little Ravenclaw named Luna Lovegood were all being held at wand point by fellow students—members of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad, all of them his Slytherins. Granger was white-faced and silent. The two Weasleys were struggling with their captors. Longbottom was apparently doing the same, but only succeeding in nearly asphyxiating himself in Crabbe’s headlock, as he was alarmingly purple. Lovegood looked entirely detached from the reality of the situation, staring thoughtfully out the nearest window. Potter—

Was staring _right_ at him, his expression wild.

Severus took in his face more carefully. His pale skin was covered in soot, as were his robes. He looked both determined and angry—but did not appear to be hurt. Severus flicked his gaze over to the fireplace; was Potter attempting to Floo somewhere? 

Finally, Severus turned his attention to Umbridge.

“You wanted to see me, Headmistress?”

“Ah, Professor Snape,” Umbridge said, rising from the pink plush chair she had been squatting in. “Yes, I would like another bottle of Veritaserum, as quick as you can, please.”

Severus refrained from raising an eyebrow. “You took my last bottle to interrogate Potter.” He flicked his gaze over at the boy in question. “Surely you did not use it all? I told you that three drops would be sufficient.”

Umbridge flushed the same color as her furniture. If the situation were not so tense, it would have been extremely gratifying. As it was, several of the Slytherins shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between Severus and Umbridge. Draco in particular looked slightly shocked, his blonde eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

“You can make some more, can’t you?” Umbridge asked sweetly, though her eyes had become hard and flinty.

“Certainly,” Severus replied. This time, he allowed a sneer to curl one side of his mouth. “It takes a full moon-cycle to mature, so I should have it ready for you in around a month.”

The conversation devolved quickly after that. Umbridge insisted that she _needed_ more Veritaserum to interrogate Potter who was, as Severus suspected, attempting to Floo someone. While he exchanged words with Umbridge, Severus continued to survey the scene, his gaze resting more often than not on Potter. Potter continued to stare back at him, his green eyes shining intently. His mouth was pressed together in a thin line, and it seemed that he was concentrating very hard. . . .

Severus lifted an eyebrow in surprise.

Too curious—and, now, also suspicious—to resist, Severus made sure that Umbridge was well into a long-winded sentence before the word _Legilimens_ formed in his mind.

Immediately, he felt as though he were being sucked into a hurricane of light, sound, and colour. Potter’s head was a complete maelstrom, his thoughts sweeping over Severus so fast that he was almost mentally bowled over. He could see flashes of a memory that Potter wanted to show him—a man, kneeling in a dark hallway, face downturned— but it kept slipping out of view. The only thing that Severus _could_ get a grasp on, that was in anyway constant, were Potter’s emotions:

 _Fear. Desperation. Love_.

“You are on probation!” Umbridge’s indignant squawk brought Severus swiftly out of Potter’s mind.

Severus once again turned his gaze on her, attempting to look bored, though internally reeling. _What the devil had Potter been trying to show him? What was going on?_

Realizing that Umbridge—and, in fact, the rest of the room, including his now-uncertain-looking Slytherins—was looking at him with an expectant air, Severus tilted his head slightly. Apparently, they had reached a zenith in Umbridge’s emotional tension.

“How unfortunate for me,” he drawled, deliberately making it sound lazy.

He distinctly heard someone gasp; he thought it might have been Parkinson.

“You are being deliberately unhelpful!” Umbridge exclaimed furiously. “I expected better, Lucius Malfoy always speaks most highly of you! Now get out of my office!”

It was all too farcical for him to resist. Head still swimming slightly, Severus gave what could only be called an ironic bow. As he raised his head, he looked deliberately into the eyes of each one of his Slytherins. They all seemed confused and perhaps a little scared, seeing their Head of House defy the Headmistress so blithely. They were not sure, in this moment, to whom they owed their allegiance.

No matter. Severus considered his own actions demonstration enough for them.

Raising once again to his full height, Severus turned to leave; as uneasy as it made him, he could hardly refuse Umbridge’s dismissal. He was at the door, his hand resting on the handle when a voice called out from behind him:

“He's got Padfoot! He's got Padfoot at the place where it's hidden!”

_Padfoot._

Severus stopped. He turned.

The hopeful desperation in Potter’s expression was nearly unbearable. It was certainly not a look Severus had ever expected to see directed at himself. He managed to keep his own face completely blank as he stared back into Potter’s bright green eyes, Potter’s words rattling around in his head. _Padfoot._

And, suddenly, it all clicked into place.

The man kneeling on the floor.

The chaos in Potter’s mind.

_Fear. Desperation. Love._

_Black._

Disgust and clarity hit Severus like a chill gust of wind.

“Padfoot?” cried Umbridge, looking between them with toadlike eagerness. “What is Padfoot? Where what is hidden? What does he mean, Snape?”

_Potter believed Black to be in the Department of Mysteries._

“I have no idea,” Severus replied coldly “Potter, when I want nonsense shouted at me, I shall give you a Babbling Beverage. And Crabbe, loosen your hold a little. If Longbottom suffocates it will mean a lot of tedious paperwork and I am afraid I shall have to mention it on your reference if ever you apply for a job.”

With that, he turned his back fully, and closed the door behind him with a snap.

**-HP-**

Severus stood in the hallway outside of Umbridge’s office, mind racing. Black was in the Department of Mysteries? With the Dark Lord? Impossible. Black had not left Grimmauld in months—there was no way on earth that the Dark Lord could have discovered his location, much less pulled him from it— unless. . . .

Unless, of course, Black had been _stupid_ enough to leave.

A wave of cold fury swept over Severus. How _dare_ he? How dare he jeopardize the entire Order, simply to indulge himself—

But perhaps not. Severus tried to once again conjure the muddled image he had seen in Potter’s mind. Something about it had not seemed entirely . . . real. Severus had not realized it in the moment but, now that he recalled, the edges of that memory seemed wispy, cloudy, lacking in detail.

Suspicion growing by the moment, Severus walked a little further down the hallway, glancing around. Making sure that no one was in sight, he took out his wand and whispered: _“Expecto Patronum!”_

A bright shimmer of light erupted from his wand and rapidly took on a shape that was both familiar and painful to him: a beautiful white doe. She looked at him serenely, bowing her head slightly.

It was only then, upon seeing her ethereal form, that Severus hesitated. He had meant to send her to Grimmauld to check on Black— the Order had decided many months ago that Patronuses were the fastest and most reliable means of covert communication. Until now, Severus had no reason to deploy his own. He had steadfastly avoided it.

What Severus was about to do would expose himself, irrevocably. If Black was there, at Grimmauld— he would see. And even someone as dense and self-centred as Black could put two and two together.

But Severus thought again of the vision Potter had tried to show him. If Black was compromised, so was the entire Order. There was nothing for it.

Gathering his resolve, Severus instructed her in a low soft voice:

“Go to headquarters. Determine if Black is still there.”

She lowered her head even further in a full bow and then, quite suddenly, leap past him. Her glimmering white form streaked down the hallway before disappearing through the glass of one of the castle’s windows.

Having dispatched her, Severus returned his focus to the door of Umbridge’s office. He could hear crying from within—though, bizarrely, it did not sound convincing. He approached it once more, pausing a few feet from it. He was not certain that Umbridge would not harm the children. She may be a Ministry official, but Severus knew her kind: the martinets who would do anything to maintain their authority and order. Severus had seen the red, angry marks on the backs of several students’ hands, had heard the whispers of the kinds of punishments Umbridge doled out for even the lightest insubordination. He could not, in good conscience, leave yet.

There was an empty classroom just across from where he stood. Casting one last glance down the hallway towards Umbridge’s office, Severus pocketed his wand, crossed the hall, and slipped inside. He closed the door behind him save for a sliver, where he could look out into the hallway.

It did not take long. He heard several muffled voices growing louder, one of them distinctly Umbridge. Soon, Severus saw Granger, Potter, and Umbridge pass down the hall. Severus waited for several minutes before fully opening the door and sweeping down the hall after them.

He stalked them deftly, gliding soundlessly behind them, stepping briefly behind suits of armor when corners were turned, so that none would see him out of the corner of the eye. Umbridge had the two students at wand point, but it seemed that they—or, at least, Granger—were leading the way.

Severus was surprised when Granger led them through the great front doors of the castle and across the grounds. He himself stopped at the entrance; he could not follow them across the open grounds without being seen. Nonetheless, he watched them trek across the grass towards the edge of the. They were nearly at Hagrid’s abandoned hut now, heading towards—

The Forbidden Forest? 

Indeed, they had just disappeared behind the hut; there was no other place they could be going.

Severus considered. Going into the forest was dangerous (hence the overly obviously name) . . . but Granger was intelligent. She would not lead them into anything that she was reasonably certain they would not survive. They would likely not go deep; and, immoral as Umbridge might be, Severus thought she would have difficulty explaining to Fudge if two Hogwarts students were killed under her direct care.

He could wait for them. They would, more than likely, return.

Severus waited three minutes before making up his mind and striding across the grounds after them.

**-HP-**

Severus was no stranger to the Forbidden Forest. He had visited on numerous occasions in his youth at Hogwarts (mainly for idiotic reasons). During his tenure as a teacher, he approached it once per month to collect various herbs, fungi, and fauna used in potion making.

Even with this familiarity, it still astounded him how, not two meters into the forest, the darkness of it consumed him and everything around him.

It was not completely without light, however; dusk was fast settling, and the last rays of sun were pouring through the dense tree canopies, giving the entire forest an eerie and muted orange glow. He picked his way across the floor carefully and quietly, wand held in front of him. His eyes darted around constantly, looking for any sign of human life.

Bowtruckles tittered from the high canopies. Birds called overhead, their songs long and mournful. At one point, Severus thought he saw the glimmer of a will-o-the-whisp far off to his right. Insects skittered across the forest floor in his wake.

But he saw no sign of Potter, Granger, or Umbridge.

The minutes crept by as Severus continued to pick his way through the forest. He tried casting as he walked, producing several tracing charms that skittered off into the forest before vanishing completely. The forest seemed to be eating up all attempts to find one’s way—or to find others.

He stopped when he approached the edge of a small clearing. There was a skeleton in the middle of it, something that looked like it might have been a thestral or unicorn. He was perturbed, but not by that sight.

He was now much deeper than he thought his quarry might have gone. It seemed impossible that Potter was still here.

At that moment, as he was gazing at the fallen skeleton in the middle of the clearing, trying to determine what to do, his Patronus reappeared.

She materialized quite suddenly, cantering towards him through the trees. She swiftly crossed the clearing, the silver-white glow of her strange against the dusky orange of the forest. When she approached, she dipped her head slightly.

“Was Black there?” Severus’ own voice sounded much too loud in the quiet.

_Yes._

It was always strange to hear his Patronus’ voice. Very like his own, but feminine, somehow. Unearthly.

“And he was alive?”

_Yes._

It was not quite relief that Severus felt upon hearing this news. Black, useless dog that he was, was not dead or at the Dark Lord’s mercy; but this also meant that the Dark Lord had planted that vision in Potter’s head, that he had better access and ability to manipulate Potter’s mind than Severus—or anyone—had thought.

Severus thought of all the visions he had seen in Potter’s head, visions of hurtling down a dark hallway in the Department of Mysteries. Not dreams, then. Not Potter’s dreams, anyway. The thought was chilling—but not more chilling than the one that followed:

If Potter was no longer at the school . . . he had almost certainly gone to the Ministry—

Suddenly, white hot pain seared down Severus’ left arm. He gasped and reflexively clutched it with his right hand, but the sharp pain was gone in an instant, replaced by a dull burn. With a growing sense of dread, Severus wrenched back the sleeve of his left arm, tearing two buttons in the process.

The Dark Mark, which had been a shadowy shape earlier, shone stark as fresh ink.

He stared at it in horror. _Fuck._

Beside him, Severus’ Patronus pawed the ground once with her hoof. Briefly, Severus closed his eyes; he willed his mind to clear.

“Find Albus. Tell him that Potter is missing. The Dark Lord knows. Tell him. . . .”

When he reopened his eyes, she was gone, and he was alone once more.

It became suddenly apparent to him what he must do.

He must get to Grimmauld. He needed to alert the others.

Severus looked at the sky overhead; what little peeked through the trees was turning from dark orange to purple; night was falling. He had spent too much time here. He needed to get to Grimmauld and alert the others.

He considered his options. He did not know when his Patronus would return. He surmised that he was relatively close to the main gate, outside of which he could Apparate—but to be seen leaving the grounds for unknown reasons was dangerous. The last, most secure route to Grimmauld was via the private Floo that had been set up for the Order; and, though Umbridge had done her best to monitor all Floos—including his own—there was still _one_ other hearth besides hers that was open and undetected. He needed to return to the school.

Stranded this deep in the forest, he knew of only one way to accomplish this quickly.

Bracing himself, Severus closed his eyes once again. He had begun practicing this skill the previous summer, and did not yet fully understand it. Nevertheless, he concentrated, ignoring the sounds and smells of the forest and focusing on his own body, the pulse in his veins, the breath being pulled slowly in and out of his lungs. He tensed—

And he was flying.

Inexpertly, to be sure. He careened through the trees, nearly knocking into one every few feet, managing to right himself each time through sheer diligence and force of will. He saw a patch of fading orange dusk as he approached the edge of the forest—

And, then he was soaring over open ground, just a few feet above, but now no longer encumbered by trees. He approached the castle at speed, waiting until he was just yards from the stone quad before dropping out of the air.

Having managed unaided flight only a handful of times before, his landing was not graceful: he stumbled and nearly fell but threw his feet further out in front of him and managed to stay upright. Once he was steady on his feet, he ran across the stone; whipping his wand out of his robes, he waved it at the large doors, which threw themselves open to admit him.

Once inside, he slowed his pace to a hurried stride. He swept past the Great Hall, as well as the staircase leading down to the dungeons. Instead, he strode in the direction of the Hufflepuff dorm—and the kitchens.

When Umbridge had taken over the school and closed or placed monitoring charms on all means of communication—including the Floo networks in common rooms, offices, and private chambers—she allowed her prejudices and ignorance to get the better of her. Umbridge, for all her disdain of half-breeds and non-humans, had failed to consider that the lowly House Elves who lived and worked in the kitchens might also have a functioning Floo; and she, unlike Severus, had obviously never read “Hogwarts: a History”—otherwise she would have known that not only was there a Floo in the kitchens, but that it was unlisted.

Severus, however, had. A week after his own private Floo had been placed under observation, he made a trip down to the kitchens and asked the House Elves if he might inspect the hearth in the east corner of the kitchen.

Thus, now, when Severus entered the kitchens, he strode straight past the scurrying house elves and approached the fireplace, he crouched down to retrieve the small jar that he had left at the left foot of the grate. He scooped a small amount of the sparkling powder into his hand, threw it into the grate and called the code name they had given the fireplace at Grimmauld Place: “Fawke’s nest!” Green flames burst forth and Severus stepped through.

**-HP-**

He stepped out of the fireplace at No. 12 Grimmauld—and he was not alone.

Five faces immediately turned to him, all with expressions of surprise. Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody, and Sirius Black all stood by the kitchen table, having obviously been deep in harried conversation. 

“Severus— ?” It was Lupin, breaking from the huddle and stepping forward, ragged features drawn with concern. “Sirius just told us—”

“Potter,” Severus cut in. “Potter believes that Black is being held captive in the Department of Mysteries. I believe he has gone to the Ministry.”

Utter silence greeted that proclamation. Severus glanced at Black: the man looked scragglier and more unkempt than usual. The last two months had not been kind to him. He was thinner than Severus remembered; his wan face held the shine of someone who had seen neither a completely sober day nor a full night’s sleep in weeks. Black’s expression upon seeing Severus step from the fire had been one of immediate and practiced dislike, but now the man had suddenly gone deathly pale.

“Harry?” Black croaked. “Gone?”

“I am fairly certain,” Severus replied. “He was sent a vision by the Dark Lord of you, being tortured in the Ministry. I believe he has gone there.”

He did not attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice, the “ _you”_ said with unmistakable emphasis, the meaning behind it clear: _Potter has gone and risked his blessed neck for **you**. _

Something like shame flickered briefly in Black’s eyes, but was gone in an instant, replaced now by a tense look that had no name.

Lupin looked between Black and Severus. “But how did Harry leave the school grounds?”

Severus turned his gaze to Lupin. “I cannot say. He went with Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest an hour ago and has not returned. Granger was with them. I searched extensively for them but could not find them—”

“They went into the forest?” Black interrupted; he sounded both incredulous and worried. “What for?”

Severus narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “I have no blessed idea, Black. Umbridge apprehended Potter in her office, trying to Floo somewhere—I presume to Floo here. I do not know what Potter and Granger told Umbridge, but she led them at wand point into the—”

“You just _let_ that vile woman take Harry into the Forbidden Forest?!” Black exclaimed angrily.

“What would you have had me do, Black?” Severus shot back. “Stupefy her? A Hogwarts teacher attacking a high-ranking Ministry official? Yes, that sounds like an exceptionally intelligent idea.”

Black opened his mouth to speak again, but Lupin headed him off by asking: “Why do you think Harry went to the Department of Mysteries?” 

“Potter recognized the room and hallway in his vision,” Severus replied, trying to even his tone. “He has seen it before. Many times, in fact. I believe the Ministry is the only place he would have gone.”

“Harry told me about those dreams,” Black said darkly. “You were supposed to help him close off his mind.”

Severus bristled. “I tried. He was obstinate. It matters little now—” 

“You were supposed to protect him!”

Black’s face was blotchy, his expression rich with righteous anger—but it paled in comparison to the incandescent rage that bloomed in Severus. The utter _hypocrisy—_

A thought, which had not quite bothered him until this moment, hit him full force: No one else knew. No one else was aware of what Black had done. Black himself would not even admit it. As far as everyone here was concerned, it _was_ Severus’ fault that Potter had not learned Occlumency and was now on his way to the Ministry. 

Severus did not mind playing the villain. He had done so all his life.

What he did mind was the injustice of seeing his enemies commit worse crimes with insouciance and impunity. He had endured it before; in this moment, he found he could not stand it.

Looking Black full in the face, black eyes glittering with malice, Severus replied in a voice as low as distant thunder:

“You are one to speak, Black.”

The rest of the room was utterly rapt. Everyone was looking between Black and Severus, uncomprehending but transfixed. Severus was gratified to see a flicker of real fear in Black’s slightly bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t—”

“Look, lads, we don’t have time for this!” interjected Moody gruffly, breaking the tension and stepping forward now. “You say he’s gone to the Department of Mysteries? Then we need to leave now, before he gets himself killed.” His magical eye then swivelled, and Severus was sure it was looking through the back of his head at the rest of the Order. “Let’s go.”

They all immediately began moving towards the door, Black looking much too excited at the prospect of going out. As if the thought of danger—of Harry in danger—revitalized him in some way, was some kind of thrill. As if he was looking forward to charging in and playing the hero, of coming to his godson’s rescue.

Potter would probably worship Black even more than he already did. This would only strengthen the bond between them. Bring them closer. 

It made something in Severus clench and twist.

He thought then of everything that had happened, saw every moment as one long chain of connected events: the strange muffled gasps behind the bedroom door, the way Black had looked at Potter, the curl of those tattooed fingers around the back of Potter’s pale neck, Potter’s strangely dazed expression, the admiration in his eyes, the hero-worship, the _they were degenerates, you know, Potter and Black,_ Albus’ dismissal, and the memories, the pieces of memories with ragged edges, inexpertly smoothed over, the hooded look in Black’s dark eyes as he leaned forward towards Potter and it all fading into darkness—

And Potter. Potter, who had no recollection. Potter, who still visited Black, even though his moods had turned surly. Potter, who craved Black’s affection even though Black would barely smile at Potter, much less touch him, since Severus’ warning. Potter, who was confused and hurt by his godfather’s dismissal. Potter, who would never live up to the image of his father in Black’s eyes. Potter, who still loved Black, despite everything. _Because_ of everything.

_You were supposed to protect him!_

The words cut Severus deeper than he liked—but they also filled him with murderous anger.

Severus had not killed many people in his life; at thirty-six, he could count on both hands the number of lives he had personally dispatched. He was not proud of nor had he enjoyed killing any of them. Several of them he regretted deeply. Contrary to his reputation, he did not take delight in the torture or death of those with whom he had no grief.

But he _did_ take delight in thinking of killing Black. He did it often. Idly. Intensely. And whilst he had always imagined doing the deed himself, he realized now as he looked at Black that he did not have to. 

He need only encourage Black to do something stupid. 

“Wait.”

The word dropped into the air like a stone. The Order had been moving towards the doorway leading to the back garden, but every single one of them stopped at the and turned to look at him.

Carefully and deliberately, keeping his eyes trained on Black, Severus said:

“Black should remain behind.”

Black, who was still pulling on a cloak, looked at him darkly. “No,” he said flatly.

“Someone will need to remain here to update Albus,” Severus reasoned. “I sent message to him, but he will need details.”

“Then _you_ do it, I’m going after my godson—”

The word “godson” made Severus roil with revulsion. His right hand itched for his wand.

“ _I_ must return to the school to maintain cover. Someone needs to be here to inform Albus what has happened. Albus gave you strict orders not to leave these premises anyway.”

“I cannot sit by—"

“You _have_ been sitting by, and you will continue to do so,” Severus interjected coldly. “The Ministry is still hunting you and the Aurors have permission to kill if you resist arrest. If you are seen, you have just as much chance of being murdered by one of them as by a Death Eater . . .” He remembered again Margaux L’estrange, her twisted smile as she spoke of Black’s cousin. Bellatrix was out of prison now; if she were at the Ministry, she might battle for the honour of killing Black.

(Severus lingered on that thought. Savoured it.)

“As much as I am sure you would enjoy a chance to finally be thought useful, you are a _liability_ ,” he concluded, his tone smooth and condescending.

The rest of the group shifted uncomfortably—because, as much as they were loath to admit it, Severus was right. Black had been cooped up in this house for nearly a year with nothing more strenuous than basic charms to perform. He had not seen combat in years. He had grown rusty, slovenly, lazy, drunk.

Black’s face flushed an irate red. “Listen, you slimy—”

Suddenly, Moody stamped his wooden leg impatiently on the floor. “Go or stay, we’re leaving now!” He turned then, and started back out the door, ambling unevenly down the steps towards the Apparition point in the garden. Shacklebolt and Tonks followed immediately, as did Lupin, though he threw a backwards glance at Snape before slipping out the door. 

Black was still standing in the kitchen, glaring at Snape. “I don’t care what you say. I’m going.” The hand holding his wand flexed dangerously. “This would have never happened if you had taught Harry Occlumency properly,” he said darkly.

Severus narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“Yes,” he hissed softly, “None of this would have happened if Potter had been taught to defend himself against those that would take _advantage_.”

Black stopped then. He looked Severus dead in the face, not speaking, his mouth drawn tight in anger, dark eyes burning.

“Fuck you, Snape.”

Severus sneered, ugly and mirthless.

“On your head be it, Black.”

With nothing further to say, Severus turned away then, stepping back towards the fireplace. But, when Severus reached down for a handful of Floo powder from the jar by the hearth, Black called back to him:

“Snape.”

Severus straightened and turned.

Black’s expression took him utterly aback. Black was looking at Severus with an expression that he had never seen directed at himself before. It held no malice, no sneer, not even a hint of dislike—just puzzlement. Pure befuddled curiosity.

“Your Patronus. . . .” Black began, and Severus felt a chill run down his spine.

They stared at each other for a moment before Black finished his thought, his tone now full of amazement:

“It’s . . . a _doe_?”

Severus did not reply. He merely turned once more, threw his handful of powder into the Floo, called for the Hogwarts kitchens, and stepped back through.

**-HP-**

The Hogwarts kitchens were bustling with activity when Severus stepped back through. House Elves scurried around, preparing food, washing dishes, filling jugs and carafes. He looked at the clock on the wall; they were more than halfway through the evening meal. The rest of the school, it seemed, had no idea that there was anything amiss.

Severus had no appetite, nor any desire to make a scene by joining the head table late. He swept off instead in the direction of Umbridge’s office. It had been nearly one-and-a-half hours since Umbridge had taken Potter and Granger into the Forbidden Forest—a long time for students in a tense situation to wait unattended. Crabbe may have actually strangled Longbottom in the interim.

Surprisingly—or, perhaps, not surprisingly— Severus did not find Longbottom dead when he entered Umbridge’s office. What he found instead were the prone bodies of six Stupefied Slytherins and not a Gryffindor—or a Ravenclaw—in sight. The scene gave Severus a strange sense of relief; perhaps Potter had not gone alone to the Ministry.

He attended first to the ones who were beginning to stir. They were all bewildered upon waking; Draco, especially, seemed aghast and abashed. Severus did not answer their questions; he simply sent them off to the Great Hall, with the exception of Parkinson, who had hit her head rather hard when she was Stupefied and had a possible concussion. He escorted her to the hospital wing.

Poppy gave him a strange look when she took in the Parkinson girl. She opened her mouth to say something, but Severus shot her a look of his own and shook his head once.

Poppy closed her mouth. She ushered the Parkinson girl inside.

Severus returned to his own chambers.

He closed the door behind him with a solid thud. He leaned against it for a moment, concentrating on his breath: steady, even. Unhurried.

He started a fire in his hearth. Poured himself a tumbler of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey. Then, he sat down in an armchair facing the fire.

He waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the canon, Dumbledore also tells Harry that Severus tried to convince Black to stay at Grimmauld. I think—even in the canon—that it was never Severus’ intention to actually make Black stay.


	11. Presque Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I didn't quite stick the ending just as I wanted, but I am satisfied with it for now. Perhaps I will go back and edit one day. But I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Make what you will of the poem.

It was nearly 2 A.M. when Severus received a summons to the Headmaster’s office. Severus had not gone to bed; he was still sitting in front of the now-dying fire, still wearing his black teaching robes when Fawkes burst into the room.

If he had not been expecting it, it would have startled him badly. As it was, he simply rose from his seat (somewhat more stiffly than he would have liked) and asked, “The Headmaster has returned?”

The bird bowed its head. _Yes._

Severus nodded. “I will be with him shortly.”

With that, the phoenix gave a low call and burst again into flames and vanished. Severus wasted no time in straightening his robes and exiting the door of his chambers.

Hogwarts at night was a familiar scene to Severus; he had spent many sleepless hours wandering the hallways and grounds, enjoying the utter serenity that came only when the students were absent or asleep in their beds. It often soothed him and whatever anxieties he harboured, the silence, the cool moonlight pouring through windows, the occasional soft hoot of an owl.

Not tonight, though; tonight, it seemed deathly still. Eerie. His own footsteps, ordinarily hushed, seemed much too loud as he made his way down the stone corridors, up flights of stairs, and towards the headmaster’s office.

The gargoyle at the entrance did not ask of him a password. It simply moved aside for him to ascend the long winding stone steps. Upon reaching the top, Severus was surprised to see that the door of the office was open.

“Ah, Severus,” an old, familiar voice called from inside. “Come in.”

Severus did was he was bid.

He had expected the sight of Albus Dumbledore, sitting once again behind the great desk of the headmaster’s office, to fill him with some kind of relief. If it did, the feeling was fleeting: Severus saw at once that Albus, far from his usual cheery demeanour, was haggard and sombre, his wizened face drawn and his blue eyes dull behind his half-moon spectacles. His shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped, his entire being less strong and less lively than Severus had ever seen him. The effect was completely unnerving.

Without prompting, Severus lowered himself into the chair opposite the older man. After a moment of silence, he inclined his head. “Headmaster.”

Albus’ silver-white eyebrows drew together slightly. He laced his hands together in front of him.

“Thank you for coming at this late hour,” he began tiredly, “I will be brief in this moment, but am happy to provide further details later if you wish—though I imagine most of them will be in the papers by tomorrow.” He sat a little further back in his chair and sighed. “As you suspected, Harry did go to the Department of Mysteries—accompanied by several friends— on what he thought was a rescue mission. As you are well-aware, Sirius was not there. Harry and his friends were soon accosted by Death Eaters. Fortunately, thanks to your actions, the Order arrived shortly thereafter and were able to save the children. The Death Eaters are now in Ministry custody.” He paused, eyeing Severus gravely. “You should know that Lucius Malfoy was among them.”

Severus nodded. He thought of Draco, likely asleep now in the Slytherin dormitory. He thought of Narcissa, waiting at home in the Malfoy Manor, pacing in the dark. This would be a damaging blow for them; it would also likely mean that Draco would take his father’s place. Severus considered that thought gravely.

“Casualties?” Severus asked.

Albus looked then more forlorn than Severus had seen him in a long while. He bowed his head slightly.

“Sirius is dead.”

Severus said nothing. The words rang in his ears like a bell.

“He was killed in a duel with his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Severus again said nothing.

“Remus told me that Sirius insisted upon accompanying the Order to the Ministry,” Albus continued. He was not watching Severus just now, but looking at Fawkes, who had taken up his perch. “He said that he himself had concerns about Sirius going, but could not see how to reason with Sirius when Harry might be in danger. He tells me that you attempted to convince Sirius to stay.”

At this, Albus did turn his gaze back to Severus. There was a strange expression about Albus’ face; still forlorn and sorrowful, but also tinted with something that Severus could not quite place. On another person, he might have called it suspicion; on Albus, it was closer to extreme thoughtfulness, as though he was turning an idea over and over in his mind, unsure of what, precisely, it was.

If Albus wished to learn the truth, he need only ask. Severus would not occlude his mind. He had nothing to hide.

“You were right to do so,” Albus continued at last, when the silence could not possibly stretch any longer. “Shacklebolt tells me that Sirius seemed reckless in his duelling. Perhaps he was overconfident in his abilities; perhaps he underestimated Bellatrix’s; perhaps the thought of his godson in danger left him emotionally compromised. We shall, unfortunately, never know.” Albus paused and gave a deep sigh. “This has been a devastating blow for young Harry.”

“Where is Potter now?”

This was not the question that either of them expected Severus to ask. As Severus sat, dumbfounded by his own query, Albus looked at him with undisguised surprise. “Harry is in the hospital wing. Though he is physically unharmed, he is mentally and emotionally drained, and I have ordered him to stay overnight. He is likely asleep now; Poppy gave him a calming and a sleeping draught as soon as he arrived.”

Severus nodded, though it was mostly to himself. He found himself gazing idly at the bits and bobs on Albus’ desk, noting the very fine sheen of dust that had befallen them.

“Do you require anything of me?”

Albus seemed just as surprised by this question. His bushy white eyebrows raised as he shook his head slowly, long white beard shifting. “No. No, not tonight.”

Those words seemed to hold more weight than they were due; nevertheless, Severus felt released by them. He rose from his chair in a slow sweep of black robes; he nodded once at the Headmaster before turning and making his way back towards the door.

“Your actions saved Harry’s life.”

The words stopped Severus just before the threshold. He did not turn, but eyed the brass door handle before him.

“They often do.”

It was a strange mix of sarcasm, fact, and hubris. It made Severus clench his jaw; his head was beginning to swim, beginning to feel like something hot and soupy and sick. Perhaps he had been awake too long. Perhaps—

“He knows. He may never thank you, but he knows.”

Those words rang in Severus’ head as he made his way back down the spiral staircase and into the hallway. _He may never thank you, but he knows._

He did not need Potter’s thanks. He did not do any of this for his own gratification or the gratitude of others. He did this in penance; and, in penance, there was no satisfaction. 

Severus hesitated as he stepped out into the hallway. He stood there, his back to the stone gargoyle that guarded the headmaster’s office, black eyes sweeping each end of the hallway. It swam like a grey and blue painting before his eyes. He closed them tightly, bringing a hand to his forehead.

His feet shifted, northward. Towards the main staircase. In the direction of the hospital wing.

The Dark Mark on his arm gave a dull, angry twitch.

Growling, Severus turned heel and swept off in the opposite direction, towards the staircase that would lead him to the dungeons.

**-HP-**

Severus thought he might be forgiven for passing through the next several days in a stupor. The entire school seemed to be in something like a daze.

Dumbledore had apparently made no announcement to the school the morning after the events at the Department of Mysteries— or, so Severus gathered, as he himself skipped breakfast that morning. But, as Albus predicted, all of the relevant details were in the next day’s Daily Prophet, which a House Elf delivered to Severus that morning when they brought his requested coffee. Severus surveyed the front page disdainfully as he sipped his black coffee. _The Dark Lord Returned! Boy Who Lived Proven Right While Ministry Scrambles for Credibility._ The first photograph accompanying the story showed a gaggle of Death Eaters being carted off by Aurors; Lucius Malfoy’s pale, scared face kept looking back at the camera as he was shoved along. The second photograph had captured a (rather terrifying-looking) Albus, glowing with power, and a thin, hunched figure that seemed too small to be Potter.

Severus considered this photo, running his long, stained fingers along the edges of the paper. Potter looked like an utter shell of a person. His glasses reflected the flashes of many cameras for the most part but, when the flashes dimmed briefly, Severus caught a glimpse of his eyes.

Exhausted. Dead. Empty. Despairing.

He thought back to the boy who had stared at him so intensely in Umbridge’s office, just yesterday. These seemed like two completely different people.

He supposed, after a fashion, that they were.

**-HP-**

It was an odd thing for Severus. He barely knew what to do with himself. Exams were over and he had many to grade, but he found that he could not concentrate. He left his chambers around midday to have a walk-about, merely intending to stalk the halls and perhaps the grounds. To see what disarray the rest of the school was in.

He was not disappointed; everywhere he went, students were clustering in groups, heads bowed, whispering to each other. Gaggles of Gryffindors conspired with huddles of Hufflepuffs, who consulted with murders of Ravenclaws. Only the Slytherins kept to themselves, darting furtive, angry, and scared glances at their classmates as they passed them.

They gave him similar looks as he passed, though, more often than not, they looked at him as if expecting him to say something. As if looking for leadership.

He considered this as he stepped outside and made his way across the lawn, towards the lake. He needed to say something to his students. He was, after all, their head of house, and whatever Dumbledore had to say that evening—for Severus was certain that he would make some kind of announcement—would be largely directed at the rest of the school. The portion of students whose parents were not intimately involved in the dealings of Death Eaters. They needed to hear from someone who understood, who knew exactly what they were facing.

Yet, he did not know what to say to them. He could hardly denounce the Dark Lord in the Slytherin common room this week and expect that it would go unremarked; likewise, he could not, in good conscience or without scrutiny, play his role to the fullest and advise them to join the Dark Lord. For all his cunning, he could not think of a way to offer them advice that would be taken either way without running afoul of the more loyalist of the Slytherins.

Moodily, he paced the edge of the Black Lake, watching the rippling surface. Sometimes—well, honestly, often—he resented that Albus had made him a professor. He understood that it made sense, that it was the most logical way for Albus to keep him under his thumb and his protection; but he hated dealing with children. He was not cut out for it, and he had never made an effort to improve his skills. He could teach them, certainly—the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. potions marks had never been so high as when he taught the subject— but he could not mentor them. Not truly, not in his position. It was laughable, really—that he, a complete and utter fuckup, a Death Eater, a hypocrite, a spy, should try to offer council to teenagers. Pathetic.

Yet, he had no choice. In this, their darkest hour yet, he must speak.

**-HP-**

He attended the feast that evening. As he suspected, Albus stood at the end and made a speech. It contained all of the notes Severus had been anticipating. And he saw, immediately, that it left his Slytherins no better for it. Many of them did not even look up, but simply stared into their plates, having barely touched their food. Draco looked especially pale.

But his Slytherins were not the only ones.

As Severus swept his dark eyes across the hall, he landed, inevitably, on the Gryffindor table. On Potter.

He sat there, much as Draco Malfoy did. Not looking up at Albus. Not looking at his friends. Sitting, with his head bowed, looking into a plate that had a single helping of (untouched) mashed potatoes. His unruly black hair curled at the base of his pale neck, hung about his face, obscuring most of it from view. What little Severus could see was pale and sallow. Even Potter’s mouth was white.

Severus watched him, unnerved. This was Potter in grief. Potter, grieving Black.

When Albus had delivered the news that Black was dead, Severus had almost expected to feel some sense of triumph. Elation, perhaps. Satisfaction. He had _wanted_ to feel those things.

Instead, in that moment in Albus’ office, he had felt nothing. Now, as he watched Potter dully watch his plate, Severus only felt bitter.

**-HP-**

When Albus’ speech concluded and the students were dismissed to their respective houses, Severus followed the herd of Slytherins down to the dungeons. He stepped into the common room after them, and was greeted with the sight of every single one of them gathered there, waiting for him.

He took them all in, keeping his expression stoic and severe. A deep quiet had settled over the room.

He had thought long and hard about what he meant to say. He took a breath.

“You are all now in a singular position. Not only do you now find yourselves at turning point in history, but also in your individual lives. You will be forced to make choices moving forward, choices that will define you and how the world perceives you. Your choices will shape the world that we live in tomorrow.” He paused to let that sink in. “It is not my place to tell you how to make those choices. However,” he said, looking around at each of them again, “while you remain at this school, it is my duty to protect you, and to offer you guidance, should you ask for it.

“If any of you had friends outside of these dungeons before, you will find them to be thin on the ground in the coming weeks and months. Society at large will shun you, perhaps even disparage you. You will all be pariahs.” The word seemed to echo in the cavernous room. “But here, among your peers, you will still have support. I _expect you_ to support each other. And,” he added in an especially grave tone, “you will have support from me.”

He looked around at them all once more. He saw seventy young faces marred by apprehension and fear. His words had not heartened them. They were nowhere near enough.

His gaze landed on Draco, who was sitting in a corner, staring into his own lap.

It would have to do.

“Dismissed.”

**-HP-**

Severus did not sleep that night. Nor much the night after. He lay awake, in his bed at first, thinking. Thinking of all that had happened. All that _would_ happen.

On the third night, he could not lay in his bed, motionless any longer. He was not merely pensive, but agitated. He threw on his robes, his cloak, and swept out once again into the darkness of the castle. It greeted him, as it had done on many previous nights, with dark and open arms.

He stalked the halls for some time, gliding down corridors as soundlessly as any of the ghosts. It was just passed might-night when he found himself walking slowly down a corridor on the third floor—near, in fact, where that infernal beast of Hagrid’s had stood guard over the Sorcerer’s Stone, five years prior. His leg gave a phantom twinge just thinking about it—when he saw something shift at the end of the hall.

Severus approached cautiously. There was an alcove at the end of the hall, a bench beneath a many-paned window. One of the panes was open, letting in the cool night air. And, as Severus watched, something shifted again near the bottom of the stone bench.

It was a strange movement, as if the fabric of reality had rippled and momentarily snagged. He stopped several meters away, hidden in a splash of shadow, watching. A breeze blew through the open window.

A sneakered foot appeared briefly, and was gone.

Involuntarily, Severus sighed.

“Potter.”

There was a moment of stillness. Then, like a waterfall, the illusion fell away. Harry Potter removed his Invisibility Cloak from his head. It settled eerily around his shoulders, giving him the appearance of a floating bust. His gaze was completely uncanny, green eyes like dusky emeralds in the dim light, emotionless. Unreadable.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

Perhaps it was the spell of the silence around them, but Severus was surprised by the timbre of his own voice: not a snarl or sneer, but a low murmur.

A flicker of surprise also passed through Potter’s eyes but was gone quickly enough. He shifted, the cloak falling a little further down one shoulder.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Potter’s voice, too, was quiet. These were, possibly, the softest words they had ever spoken to one another.

Severus continued to stare at him. In another instance—in another lifetime, it seemed—he would already be berating Potter. Insulting him. Chastising him.

But now he looked at Potter. He looked at the pale, wan face, the unruly black hair, the green eyes which seemed almost grey in the darkness. Potter had never looked more vulnerable than he did now.

 _Merlin_. He was only a boy. Only fifteen. He would likely, one day, be sixteen. But perhaps not seventeen. Perhaps not eighteen. Perhaps he would never grow up.

It might be the best thing for him, really.

The boy before him was an utter wreck of a human. If Potter did indeed survive all of this—if he did, in the end, defeat the Dark Lord and live—what then? What would Potter be? Severus knew was like to try and cope with the kind of devastation that awaited Potter—and the kind he had already suffered. They would eat him alive, these feelings, these memories.

And of the things that he could not remember? What of them? 

Severus had read somewhere that certain memory charms only lasted as long as their casters. That, if the afflicted outlived the person who had cast the spell, the strength of the charm faded. Memories once destroyed could be regained slowly, in increments, in fragments that often did not make sense unless one deliberately tried to put them in context. It was almost worse than having the memory taken in the first place. 

Severus thought then of Black, of the last expressions he had seen on the man’s face: fear and rage and shame.

If Potter was lucky, he would never know.

Before him, Potter fidgeted slightly. He was watching Severus now, wary. Severus realized that Potter was waiting for the reprimand he knew must be coming. He was waiting for Severus to take his cue and become Professor Snape, who punished first and asked questions later. Who was unmerciful and unfair. 

But, just now, Severus was tired. 

Instead, he slowly lifted his chin and tilted his head.

“Come.”

He waited until Potter had risen from his perch before turning and walking back down the hallway. The soft sound of sneakered feet on stone let Severus know that Potter was following.

Several minutes later, they were standing in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, who was fast asleep. Waving his wand once, Severus activated the charm that allowed professors to access common rooms without a password. The portrait swung forward, revealing the small entryway.

He turned back to Potter; the boy was staring at him.

“Go to bed, Potter.”

Harry continued to watch Severus for one long moment; then, he obeyed. He went through the portrait hole without another word. Severus closed the portrait behind him.

He knew Potter had expected to be disciplined. But, in the end, Severus sent him back to bed without detention or taking points, or even confiscating his cloak. It was not a compassionate act; but it was the closest to mercy that Severus knew.

_-fin._

_...._

_.._

_In the gloam, we hold our secrets_

_As sometimes lovers do,_

_And, there, they remain hidden_

_But for fleeting presque vu._

_.._

_...._


End file.
